Ink.

I am a writer.
I am doomed to stitched lips
without a pen in my hand.
The pen? He speaks for me.
Sharing my thoughts,
my dreams and wishes,
and all the other secrets that are locked away
inside my head.
I am a writer.
I think not before I speak,
but afterward.
My words are unbridled by pure memories
my mouth unhinged with the slightest provocation.
I am a writer.
I life my life through paper
through the dull scratching of a pen
and enveloped
in the world of script,
with a poem wrapped around my throat.
I am a writer.
Welcome to my mind.