I am writing

It may not look that way to you
But trust in me, I am.
I may not hold a fountain pen
Or tap black plastic keys
The words that I am scribbling
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
Purple mauve or pink?
But I am surely writing here
Although you say I aint
I am busy writing now
Whatever you may think.