A Poem on why i started writing

On my twentieth birthday
A friend
Sent me words,
As I read
No music played
Except between my eyes
And the page.
It was what I meant to say
What I felt,
And had grieved about,
Now someone
Had shared the same
And I was home
I was made.
I read the book
About a wolf
In two days,
Would have been more
But interrupted
By friends; well wishers.
I had found my dream
But it ceased,
Constantly reading this book
It would not cease
The pain;
Occupational hazard
Of the sensitive mind.
Then I realised
That he wrote
Not for me
But himself
A creative sense
Of realising the world;
My pain would never end;
Odd ends
Of journeyers
Would amend
Slightly.
I had to create myself,
Poetry
However bad or good
And I dedicate this to you
The friend
Who bought me the book.