I am the writer, the pen that meets the page
The ink forming letters slowly on the paper
Who am I? Why would I have the right to be another voice singing throughout the world?
Who am I? Why am I the scribbles on the page?
The beauty in America as I sing my song
As I sing through the words that I can’t speak aloud
Singing through the pen that I move along the paper
~
I’m not one to speak aloud
I’m not one to speak what I think, to say what’s on my mind
I’m the one who speaks through the pen
Who speaks through the ink scraping along the paper
I’ve found my voice in a different form than others
My voice sings in a way that I call my own
~
I don’t sing the song of blacksmiths hammering away at a new sword
I don’t sing the song of Bakers smiling as their bread rises
I don’t sing the song of Apothecaries exchanging coin for poison as they hide in the shadows
I don’t sing the song of Knights sparks flying as they battle
I sing my own song the song of pen and paper, ink along the page
I used to have no voice, no way to speak my mind
But now my voice is found through the lines I etch across the page
Now I’ve found that voice, I’ve found my voice as I sing the song of writers
