I’m a writer who grew out of the familiar things around you.

You make me, who I am,

For what I write is all about us.

You can see me outside your window,

Dangling at the end of the branch a day,

And meeting unfamiliar chaos the other day,

I might write about you and the wind.

How it entangled your hair,

And took away your scent,

To endless terrains and of the joy of it being pulled back,

I loved to write all about it.

When it rains, I could see you

Dancing your way through the mud,

The familiar things that make you, and make me write.

I’m a writer who grew out of your untamed chaos

All my life

All to you..