The gentle slide of a pen
Is far more pleasing to me
Than the metal skRITCH ScreECH
Of a mechanical pencil.

I keep and treasure my pens,
As they are each unique
And hard to replace
While pencils are a dime a dozen.

Pencils are easily lost
And I’m always in the want for more,
For better
As though they don’t fulfil their purpose to me.

I dislike the infidelity of a pencil,
The fact that anything done can be undone with a stroke from the other end
Erased, just like that.
Unlike the reality of a pen.

Once something is set in motion with a pen,
There is no going back.

In a keen student’s school bag
Suffocated in the bottom of textbooks and folders
A pen died

A moment of silence for this pen
Who was able to make it thus far
Unlike his friends who was dropped
Down the subway tracks

No one mourned when this pen died though
Only the pen knew
Of its arduous and hard-lived life
Filled with scribbles and ink blotches

We are the written ammunition of this literary military.*

~April 1st, 2017~

It comes naturally
to write down my thoughts
Even in the worst situations,
When my mind is in knots

No one to share with
Except the pencil and paper
My notebooks and notepads
Stacked as high as a skyscraper

Writers are the loneliest of people
Or so, I’ve been told
I believe the lonelier one is,
the more pens one holds

My new weapon of choice
I have it because I don't have a voice
It is narrow
And swift like a sparrow
It seems harmless
But is full of darkness
It can damage souls
And fit into keyholes
With it I will draw patterns in to my skin
As a wear a foolish grin
I hide them well so none will see
The art exhibit
It's a sneak peak into my spirt
It's not on display
So go the **** away
My new weapon I say again
Is a red pen