For a year I have slaved,
As slave to my pen,
Or to my words,
Message
And form.

But not as an obedient servant.

I struggle,
Grapple with my master,
My monster.
To break from tra-
-dition.
To scream -  I AM NOT A MACHINE!

I do not write out of necessity,
Though at times,
Perhaps I feel I must.

No, I write with a purpose,
Far beyond keeping up appearances,
Or challenge,
Or obligation.

I write with the soul,
My sole purpose,
To speak truth from me,
To you,
In the most elegant,
Precise,
Graceful,
Way this language will allow,
My overactive mind,
To create.

And how far I've come!
What truths I have fashioned from,
Simple things,
Birds, trees, computer screens,
All inspiration to me.

But each time I picked up,
That pen or that laptop,
I opened another door,
Another chamber,
Another corridor of my mind.

And in searching for effect,
Or metaphors or riddles,
Found more meaning than could be,
Conceived by a thousand scholars.

I found something far more precious,
Far more elusive,
Than any moment of awe,
Or wonder,
Or disbelief.

I found myself,
And I continue to find myself,
And it is my only wish,
That through this pen,
These words,
Message,
And form,
I could help someone else do the same.