Seven years old 

In a frenzie on the floor

Surrounded by boxes 

My pen was a sword

 

It vanquished that wild bird

I kept hidden in my chest 

Always pecking at the termites 

Between my frail bones 

 

I would cry 

Just a little

My pen was a friend 

It held my hand until time came

For the weeping to end 

 

Then the words would appear 

Beneath my pale hand 

Where my brain had no business 

Where reason couldn't understand 

 

I placed the pen on a shelf 

And before me beheld 

A copy of myself 

Pinned across the page

 

The mindless chaos of me

By my pen 

Set free 

Even when I was blind  

My pen could see