In every word scribbled I find a story, a memory, a person attached to it 
The subject of every poem is you and that person changes as quickly as I choose to run 
Or she, a pronoun I so often hide behind because she is easier to utter than admitting I have felt pain 
And there are always people hidden in the ink, whom I’ve hurt or helped, longed for or lost 
And sometimes they’re the strangers I create lives for in the back of my mind, taking comfort in the creativity of it all, the fantasy of it
The escape