I am writing

It may not look that way to you
but that’s the way it is.
I may not hold a fountain pen
or tap black plastic keys
the words that I am writing
are hard for you to see.
The murky ink invisible
I store it in my skull;
it mixes words and visions like
our bread pan kneads the dough.
It may just look to you as if
I’m staring at the wall
trying with my eyes to feel
the thickness of the paint
or penetrate the colour
is it is purple, mauve or pink?
But I am surely writing
even if you say I ain’t.
I am busy writing
whatever you may think.