My hand is itching to take up the pen
And scribe on linéd pages once again,
Scratching till the mind-blood flows and then
Clawing at the edges of the cuts
Made into inky blackness, breaking ruts
And looking to those watching as if I'm nuts
For tearing at the wounds that I have made.
I know I've my anxieties betrayed.
Amid such madness, few are those who've stayed
Beside me, going with me as I go
In and through and out again, who know
There will be something from this that will show.
Anymore, my why's Asimov's why:
I write like breathing; I do it, or I die.