The ink of my pen pressed firmly
into the parchment,
staining it with an idea,
with a thought that was
of my own mind.

The parchment was rough,
withered at the ends from the
lack of neglect that I had
spared it upon it during the years it
retained its fine age in my attic,
collecting the very dust that
bargained with time.

The pen, the parchment were the tools
I had at my disposal,
they were the tools I relied
on during a daily basis.
Such basic items to another
person would seem insignificant,
but were they?
Not to me,
but that was the price of it all.
The price of being mistaken
as something I wasn't.
There was a price of humility
that came with a passion,
that came with the dying
art form of prose, poetry, and fiction.

Those art forms
that express that of our
deepest desires,
concerns, and
problems.
Written words can express parallels
in the way that speech may not be
sufficient in doing.

That's where my humility,
my passion, and
my work originate from.

They stake a claim
on the spontaneity of words,
of sentences,
and the nuances of the
language that can convey
just what I forge them to.

Oh, how these kind acts of pleasure,
and these kind acts of movement
bring me both joy and sorrow.

The pen on the parchment brings me
into the realm of both reality and fiction,
giving me the ability to speak as freely as
I want to.

Chained down to such a society,
such a group of people around me
who entice me to strive in such a way
that contributes to the thoughts
of the inner dwellings of my mind,
lapping them up and laying them out
on the old, dusty, and fine aged parchment.

These thoughts are private,
and yet, they are very public.
They are for those who wish to listen.
They are for those who wish to ignore.
They are both a pleasure and a pain.

They are from me,
and they are given to you.
They are humility, and
they are pride.
They are local, and
they are foreign;
they are to be used with
the utmost intention of
fluid emotionality and
cordial necessity.