The Writer Within
Dear Writing,
When I pick up my pencil
And my story from within
I let my hand take my mind
For a walk across the page
I can feel the words leaving me
Not because I’ve written them
But because the story is ripped away from me
If only they could see the stories buried beneath my skin
They’d see the person I was born to be:
The writer within
I fell in love with my mind
My hands making the trip
I couldn’t see all the problems
So I ignored the person within
Pushing past the pain
That grows in my wrist
I know I can make it,
One last trip
Love you always,
The Writer Within
