Where I am from stems from words on a page
I write for myself, for I must rewrite
myself every day, these words on a page
come crashing down from my mind.
Where I am from is from paper and ink
I rewrite myself, and if I don't, I can't speak
nor sleep, nor eat, nor breathe nor think
the words just pour out of my mind.
Where I was born varies day after day
from a mountain range cold to the blue ocean bay
and wherever I go I must find a way
to keep myself sane; I keep writing.
Who I live for is for but me to know
with dark hair and dark eyes and quite the dark soul
I dare not bother with his name
for his feelings are not the same.
All my life I'll be trapped within my mind's walls
it's a maze, but the center, the center will call
as it guides me through, and into the light
and maybe there I will find the secrets of life.
Where I was born
who I was meant to be
if 42's really the meaning of everything –
Yet there is no rush, I must keep my pace slow
there are many things yet that I do want to know:
where will my stories end? How will I know?
Where is the blank tundra covered in snow
that I dream of so often; that is for me alone –
How will I get there and when will I go?
Where I am from stems from leaves on a page
as I write my own life, day after day
as the branches grow, the roots decay
and the story tree unfolds.