PRISONER OF TIME 1 © 2007

I sweat onto the paper,

The sweat that drips from the soul,

Each drop filled with life,

And this sweat has a taste,

As if it were a name,

An identity, a mark.

It is not just ink that flows,

It is the weight of who I am,

The essence that spills,

In every word that flows,

In every line I trace.

This sweat is the reflection of my being,

Of what I feel, of what I live,

It is the effort of existing,

Of transforming the intimate into verse,

Of giving voice to what screams inside me.

I sweat onto the paper,

And in it, I find calm,

For I know that each drop, each word,

Is a part of me that reveals itself,

That takes shape, that has a name,

In the taste of writing that consumes me.

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