I am making music, yet I am fifeless.
I carve my words in the wood, yet I am knifeless.
Black ink covering my hands,
As my crippled thoughts begin to stand.
Rivers running in my bones,
Of ink and words that are all mine alone.
My hand is on the pen trail roll,
I never quite have total control.
Writing I feel the rhythmic vibrations,
Of my thought provoking creation.
As I begin like ones before, my world’s imitation.
I know in this life I have no true reservation.
On this paper I remain on staining,
As ink from my eyes keep raining.
I know I must grow older.
With age my words will become bolder.
Writing wisdom in perfection,
And my thought’s gentle misdirection.
Hopefully on this very paper my pen will leave scars,
And someday help someone find their hidden stars.