The passion that leaked was spilled by led,

The words able to form what's been left unsaid.

There are times I wonder how it all began, 

Though I'm sure it was because of the age of man.

 

My pencil and paper are servants to pleasure, 

I, the god, who seeked such measure.

I tend to find this life uncontrolled,

Though its been awhile that I've been this consoled. 

 

There are times I consider myself to resemble a tree,

Creeping inside the dark,  almost weeping.

The fact that I'll never reach the sky,

My heart aches to somehow grow tall and high.

 

Such a tale, 

Carrying lack of correct expression,

You'd wonder why I speak of such depression.

 

Why I write, Oh why I do.

This feeling it gives me

So full of a reassurence a father would coo.

 If only these reasons came out better than I intended, 

To make it sound more beautifully contented.

 

Only this passion can answer the fate I've chosen,

Trapped inside paper,

playing a master who is the word caster.