I start to write,
and soon my pen
becomes an extension of my arm,
part of my body through which
my mind flows out onto paper
in the beautiful yet insufficient form
of scratchy little lead letters
that string together into words,
sentances, verses...
sometimes whole pages.
Just marks on a paper,
and yet there is a certain solace in knowing
that the undefinable substance of my thoughts
has taken physical form
and will outlast the day
when the structure of my mind
and the spaces full of memories
turn to dust.

01/18/2002

Posted on 01/18/2002
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