Covered and clothed, I have one purpose to fulfill.
But until this top comes off, my existence is nil.
Without the top off, I ultimately have no point.
I can't provide wisdom for you to grow from a boy.
Slowly, my tops taken off and my essence is revealed.
This point of mine for me to penetrate and simply fill...
This page with my ink, and let it create a trail behind.
And watch how the empty paper starts to bleed inside.
My ink will travel through, but my goal’s not yet reached,
Until I can capture the author’s exact tone and theme.
It’s the writer’s voice, but it’s too elusive to grasp.
Still I strive for perfection in this dystopian habitat.
I’ll constantly thrust my ink until the juice runs out,
Until it resides in the paper, the womb and its house.
I’ll work with a passion until death at last has pity.
Until I’ve been exhausted, and my ink expresses me.
These words, my offspring, will carry out the voice.
What I longed to accomplish will be carried by my boys

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