When I write,
Putting that pen to paper -
Even if to merely create ink smudges
Where the thoughts die young -

I can feel each piece of me,
The ones I know are there,
And the ones I've buried so deep down
Even I forgot-
Swirl around my soul,
And gather in that pen -

So the words and patters and nothingness on that page
Are my everything,
My words, well, they're me.