Some are born with humor,
Some are born with grace.
I was born with a pen,
Attached to my hand with lace.
While others have religion,
And a god to show them through,
I am a god to myself,
And everything I do.
The ink in the pen is permanent,
Which is something to never doubt,
But there are a great amount of things,
I wish to scribble out.
My life is barred with anger,
And a happiness overflow,
But there are many feelings,
I have yet to show.
There are places in this world,
My heart longs to be.
Other times though,
Home is where I must be.
Dreams keep me going,
Through until the light,
Other dreams are frightening,
And wake me in the night.
A pen to write my life,
That is what I am told.
Someday the ink will run out,
When I grow to be very old.
So when it's my time to go,
And my friends have all moved on,
I hope that in their hearts,
I will never be fully gone.
Now, don't remember me as a child,
With humor or even grace,
Remember me as the child,
That wrote in pen tied with lace.