I was lonely in my heart,
And everything was dark.
There were no forms,
No warmth,
No tales to be seen.
My memories floated around aimlessly,
and I felt like a blank board. 
So I took out my pen, and I became a writer.

My thoughts were many,
And my ideas were strong.
I felt stuck inside my own head,
And thought,
“I might as well make it beautiful.”
So I became a writer.

I dreamt up characters with eyes to see and hearts to melt.
I gave them shelter in cities of my own design,
I offered them spaced inside my head to thrive and grow.
I needed to give them a story,
So I became a writer.