While I use a pen to spill my soul onto paper,
I tear myself open and words
Gush out of me rapidly,
You are my muse, my reason
The trees, God, that stranger, the pain
In my heart and joy in my laughter;
I selfishly use it all –
To empty my vessel of words
And I am obliged to do so,
for what else would I do with it?
So tell me what it is you do with yours,
These words are in us all,
We just release them differently!