When I sit down with a paper and a pen,
my mind starts to assemble a puzzle of words.
I paint a picture in my mind, over and over again.
Sentences for brushes - my imagination is the color palette,
maybe I'll add some melody and a beat.
My hand will move by itself, 
to write the story of my thoughts,
and maybe one day this paper will be found,
by a lost soul like myself.
Somebody who just needed an understanding set of words,
a cheerful little story, that just needed to be heard.
I write mostly for myself, to get it all out, 
but when read by someone else,
I realize what it is really all about.