When I look to my fingertips,

On writing, typing, seeing

Sights in stories, the imagination,

Of the yellowing pages of stories,

First floor, second floor, library collections

Of words enticing me since before knowledge,

Of the word novel.

Ideas,

Jumping from mind

To heart,

Beating red, beating poetry,

Beating my mind quiet,

As it was before inspiration hit.

Me before my fingers run across a keyboard,

So familiar, I know it like the back of the hand

Which rests upon it.

Like the air I breath, the water that hydrates

The words that become myself.

Is only the producer,

I put necessity on a page,

Sharing with the universe a breadth of worlds,

Yet unwritten, yet unheard of.

Writing, I create, I make

Art of another kind,

Synonymous with psychological sanity,

And gravity in our galaxy,

It holds me together.