Writing Poem by Abigail Hauschild

The smell of wet ink
Feeling the smooth glide of my favorite pen
The elegant swoop of connecting letters
The scrape of pen on paper resonating in my ears
Hesitating before plunging into the next line

The comforting smell of fresh paper
The velvet feel of my hand moving across the page
Seeing my words fill up my old green notebook
The scratching sound of paper against paper
The breath I didn't realize I held releasing

The smell of aged leather binding
Feeling myself sink into my worn bed
Seeing the rush of my scrawl trying to keep up with my thoughts
Hearing nature's late night lullaby
Purging myself of the worries that torment my daydreams

The closest thing to peace I have ever known