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.