What I do is not art.
I hold my pen and write between
the purplish-blue lines of my
recycled loose-leaf paper,
feeling comforted by the red margin
that (unlike so many other things)
remains constant.

On the gray-white surface
of the pock-marked page,
I write for my own freedom,
filling the spaces with the black marks
expressing my pain and anger,
and most of all, my joy.

I weave a path of words
onto each line of the paper,
each mark unique with its own sound and voice
and I continue
until I run out of beginnings, middles and endings.

The blank page is merciless,
begging me to fill it with my words
and I can only comply because
it is part of my duty to fill it,
on order to nurture it
so that it may live on as legend.

As always, so here I sit,
black pen in hand,
watching the ink swell onto the page,
as the paper drinks hungrily
from its life-blood of black ink and dotted i’s.

I am glad to stay its hunger;
It is my purpose.