What is writing,
Is it life?
Immortalized in strokes
of pen and keyboard?

Is it the author,
proudly displaying scars?
Dripping ink-ridden blood
all over used-to-be-white pages?

Is it a hopeless cry
screaming out?
Begging to be remembered
to be passed on.

Is it a guide
on how to be human?
Emblazoning us with hope,
choking us with despair.

Is it dreams,
or nightmares?
Filled with worlds
that seem so real.

Is it a message,
adrift in a sea of letters?
Carrying directions,
or a dire forewarning?

What is writing?
Would it be simpler
to ask?
What am I?