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I stare blankly ahead tears
rolling down my face.
I am trapped in my own miserable body
my head aches with despair,
i am nothing.
I plea for an escape.
Without thought, my arm reaches
I touch the tattered notebook.
Flipping through the pages i remember,
i had poured out my life story
onto these very pages
each memory, failure, victory caught on a page,
I dip my quill in the pot of ink,
they had been waiting for me.
I draw my quill to the blank page,
it is cold and bare, naked like all the others,
before i had decorated them with life.
A tear drips onto the page,
my heart is set ablaze.
My hand begins moving, my mind is a
of emotions and memories.
Hearing the sound of my lettering
scratch across the page elates me.
i feel relief as every word dries warmly
softly. My own words speak to me,
the comfort me and whisper.
I am thrilled.
My writing is my passion,
i yearn for the challenge as my mind is set to work.
when i write i can think of nothing else.
i hear nothing,
i see nothing,
it is just my writing and i, nothing else matters.
Through life i find i am restricted. Forced to be
My mind is small, but wants to explore,
i cannot think or understand.
I am separated from the world,
they are seen, and heard, felt and understood
but their is no true connection.
But my writing i are bonded so deeply,
it is forever emblazoned my heart, it is embedded in my soul, we are one.
When i write i am elated,
i am delighted,
i am everything
but what i love most about my writing and i:
we are free