Sometimes when my pen hits the page something raw pours out. I have peppered my journals with poetry since my early teenage years; a way to let what I really felt, rumbling below my smile, adorn the page.   Sometimes the lines are lofty or brave or filled with wisdom. And other times the lines soft and heartbroken, filled with yearning and hope to find my match. I’ve carried this desire since I was a young girl. I’d often close my eyes and dream him up.   It’s likely the muse for the romantic slant to the novels I write while I dreamscape the page. He’s had violet eyes and jet black hair, or baby blues and freckles sprinkled across his nose or…