Words
Pushing at my hand
Yearning to escape my black pen
Black, like the ink on my fingers
and the hurt in my soul
I have to create
as you have to breathe
But create what?
Ideas swirl
but none are concrete
How do I make my mark on the world
if my brain is busy mapping the stars
The ink flows
And I say nothing
Nothing new, that is
The pen writes what it has before
Even as the words
push at my hand
But cannot possibly be free
YOU ARE READING
Short Stories
Short StoryA collection of short stories (and maybe poems?) by me. Mostly Tolkien related, but there'll be other stuff too.
