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People ask me what is it that I'm doing when I deliver my thoughts on paper —there are tears and quiet a few feelings stirred— I consider it joy when I get them to feel
And the answer to that question comes not with great advice from years of being old in this never-ending toil —it's hardly the trick to catch success in your hands because I'd like to know that secret as well
When people ask me how I don't cry or crumble whenever I harbor the storms in my heart —I smile and say that I am born on a day of turmoil by the sea of monsters and strife
And the answer to that question is simple yet something people have heard a thousand times over —it's not because I write with years of study and knowledge of forms and all the rules I write—not with pens to stain paper with thoughts or knives to cut myself dry Darling—I write with my heart
