I can hear the pen,
Scratching, scratching, scratching.
I can see the ink,
Writing, writing, writing.

There is something there,
That cannot be seen.
It is telling me something.
Calling, calling, calling.

On my paper there are more than words,
More than sentences, more than stanzas.
On my paper there is life.
Breathing, breathing, breathing.

It sends a message that only I can hear,
Telling me what I didn't know before.
It is telling me secrets.
Speaking, speaking, speaking.

The words breathe in,
And the words breathe out.
Without them I could not live.
Living, living, living.

They give me oxygen,
Which I consume as if deprived.
Before I could not live.
Giving, giving, giving.

They are my oxygen.
They are my life.
They are my words.
Breathing, breathing, breathing.