As simply put as I can manage, this poem is about what writing is to me.
In-between Ink and Paper
Crazy is all too commonplace for me.
It’s the head down,
Nose-to-the-grindstone result of lunacy.
Within, I’m bound and determined to take what I have,
Transform it from the past,
Make my disaster a masterpiece.
Through my pen I seem Confident.
Through my speech, Cultured.
Through my demeanor, Circumspect.
I use my words as barricades.
To try and bolster my absent pride.
While behind them I stay dwindling, barely existent but still alive.
In-between Ink and Paper;
Such a plain place for me to hide.
Open and public but obscure and comfortable.
This refuge is my only sanity.
A world apart from everyday absurdity.
The one place I can rest in balance and harmony.