My father passed when I was three years old,

Leaving my family in grief and pain.

Writing is the only way to warm the cold,

The sunshine to drive away the rain.

It recieves my thoughts and holds my prayers,

Keeping secret my questioning of the various powers.

The paper absorbs my anger and my cares

As I write away the hours.

Every day, or now and then,

Depending on the free time given to me,

All I need to do is pick up a pen

To word my world in black and white, wild and free.

I write while I'm still young,

Will continue to write on through the years,

For writing to me means that spring has sprung,

That I will once again rejoice as my soul appears.