Writing,

Like the medicine that cures my ailments,

I need it to live.

Writing,

Like the scent of after-rainy-days,

I am addicted to it.

Though it has been long since a

Stylus has met my hand,

The electric pulsing,

Beating like a drum,

Is ever present.

Writing,

Like an endless mirror,

It is the other side of me.

Writing,

Is me and me alone.