I left my soul in ink on paper and I’ve
been writing ever since trying to get it back
When it left me I became hollow
I only feel complete when I’m burning
my mind in black
In words
In feelings
In worlds beyond imagination
But when that book ends,
When that final word leaves my finger tips
When the ink runs out
I lose my soul all over again
I left it in ink on paper
and I’ve been trying ever since to get it back

  --Is that why writers are always lonely?