I Am a Writer

These words upon this page colored with the black ink of night hardly mean anything to anyone, well,l anyone but me. It's like the paper becomes my body the pen becomes my blood and tears the very beat of my heart is the meter that it goes. I paint in my words, something a painter never can capture something far deeper inside where no one else can go. The pen is like a blade slicing open all these memories sinking into a rhythm of something alive what am I creating? Pencil is to soft, and can't make it through Pen is strong, bold, and swift, makes it easier to breath at the end when finally it is done. Would you call me a writer for the prose by my hand? Well what else could you label me, for define me and you ruin me. For freedom is where my writing thrives The simple tools to strengthen me Pen and paper such simple words, yet strong enough for me, for I am a writer...