It's like the rain that falls,
The summer that calls.
The wind in my hair,
Caring about this the most.

To do so is an honor,
a privilege, a right.
I write to breath, to live,
to fight.

It calls to me, this pen, this pencil,
this book, this night.
My freedom through words,
My life in another sight.

I write to speak, to see,
to hear everything around me.
Don't censor me,
It hurts; this cruel punishment at work.

I yearn for the the life it gives me.
Don't take it away from me.
This pen, this pencil,
this book, this night;

My freedom, my words,
through expression of sight.
It's all I have,
This ability to write.