My book is open
A book of blank pages
Empty thoughts
No feeling, just dead

My pen is set
A syringe of life
That flows out
With a flip of the wrist

A chill from my mind sets
A large dark dome
Painful thin walls
Dedicated to thinking

Traveling down my arm
The information highway
Reaching the end
From being the beginning

Then my hand is alive
Rose from the grave
Filled with warmth
Alert and ready

I create page after page of life
Filling the soft white
With deep black
I make a story

This is my style
This is my writing style