The words on this page are keeping me alive.
Alone in my cell, my mind,
it comes for me,
It circles around me, a hound, a monster,
But it knows me.
As I look into it's eyes,
I see me.
Myself reflected is a monster,
I can't kill it,
Can't break it.
Watch as I hurt all around me.
They don't see,
The true me,
Behind my mask of stone,
A human.
A weak and venerable human,
The darkness circles me,
curls around me,
Soaking into my skin.
A pen.
A pen turns the tide,
The dark in my soul,
Absorbed by the Pen,
None but The Creator,
Can create,
But all can transform.
Pen,
Save me,
Take my pain,
Give it new life on the page.
This is about Sherlock Holmes or Dr. Watson. But also about me. Watson wrote for the Strand. I believe that Sherlock wrote in a secret diary, because his storytelling is so good. But I write here. The power a pen carries is impossible to ignore. This place is an escape. When life is too much, books are a refuge. I am like Sherlock Holmes, I never take off my mask, But I am also like the doctor, wielding the Power of Pens.