In my hand, I hold my ever present pen,
I like to think it is my idea of zen.

I await for thoughts to come into my head,
my ink of choice is usually red.

I wait for my hand and mind to become warm,
I ready myself for the oncoming storm.

As I start to write on the blank white page,
my hand moves with a focussed rage.

I always put down what I think and feel,
sometimes it is imagined, other times real.
...