I wouldn’t be me.

No, not me completely,

If for some reason,

I lacked all my writings.

Because writing

Is twisted,

It is ingrained,

Into the depths of my soul,

And every molecule of  DNA.

It holds my truths,

And my pains,

My loves,

And my sanity's remains.

So I sit upon my bed,

Pen in hand, ink to page

And write to my hearts content.

Without it

I just, wouldn't be the same.