I don’t know about you, but I can remember when I was broaching my teen years I would spend hours writing angry poetry in my bedroom. I was technically way too young to be writing about jaded love. But, I did. Although, my own experiences may have been limited I certainly had enough examples around me from which to deduce love’s disappointments. Then, there was the subject of war and its pain, inequities, and sometimes senselessness. I wrote about that, too. Every now and then I’d actually write something light and hopeful. It must have been due to the various candle scents that provided the benefits of aromatherapy. I’m quite certain it wasn’t Jimmie Hendrix or John Lennon providing me my fleeting optimism.My bedroom was always my emotional ‘haven of rest’. I locked myself behind those four walls much like Joan of Arc hid from the Nazis. It was that place where I could exercise my cynicism, my anger, my hopefulness, and my dreaming. My walls were plastered with McCartney, McCartney, and….ugh…did I mention McCartney? If any of you do not know who McCartney is you shouldn’t be reading this. I also took time in my haven to brush my…