Writing is my soul,
The part that is hidden
Dark and light
That only escapes for a time.

Writing is my true friend,
That, even if separated or distant,
Will come back to me in my time of sorrow
To grasp my arms and shake sense during times of doubt.

Writing is my lover,
Who caresses me with both logic and comfort
When I lay, sit, curl, and depress
In the wonder of my own existence.

Writing is my enemy,
Who knows my weaknesses
And plots to prevent meaningful words
From being placed from the mind, to pen, to paper.

Writing is my mountain,
From the highest air seeking inspiration
From Gods and Nature, clouds and rain
That never takes me for granted like the human aisle.