When I feel all alone,

or think twice before I speak,

my pen is who I turn to.

When expressing feels impossible,

and courage is gone,

again, my pen is who I turn to.

She's my pretty sword,

and I'm her only companion,

she longs for words,

and I, someone to share,

So you see, we are made for each other.

And with her the flow is set.

the tip of my sword touches the canvas,

and the art is made,

One after the other,

words flow in,

like endless rain.

But the world watches us,

with judgeful eyes,

and fearful words,

won't let me say,

won't let me share,

so I yield my sword to say 'goodbye'.

But 'she', who only knows,

who knows I will come back,

because I always have,

because - my pen is who I turn to.