And I sit alone, writing
poems, stories, thoughts, & wanderings
to make sense of this world,
to make sense of this life.
Nobody knows what I feel, what I see,
nobody knows everything inside of me,
and this world is mine alone,
and I have everything I need,
except for everything I am missing.
And the pen scribbles on,
ink flows like blood across these
virgin white sheets of innocence,
consumated by the passions and insights
of my written self.
Clinging to my own words,
sanctuary in my own words,
understanding in my own words,
salvation in my own words.
