The pen

stains my hands

and brings a smile

to my lips.

It's all worth while

as it whispers, softly,

into my ear,

the adventures

of two friends-

the

two

of

us.

Up all night,

pen and lamplight,

the first chapter

to the final fight.

Imagination,

possibity exploration,

a shelter, a refuge

from desperation.

Dreams become reality,

this dream belongs to me.

With pencils, keyboards

I feel so free.

Another book published,

(Another book locked away),

another fanfiction shared,

(another fanfiction forgotten),

another story told,

(another story gone),

another poem unleashed.

(another poem gathering dust).

Another idea given,

(Another unknown way),

another choice made

(another path deserted),

another lesson shared

(another mistake repeated)

another emotion expressed.

(another bottle broken).

Another risk taken.

(Another time to wonder what if).

Pen and paper.

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

Coarse paper with no

c

l

e

v

e

r

n

e

s

s

,

since my writing is childish without f o n t s.

Yet still, writing is all my spǝǝu

and all my

w

a

n

t

s

.

They say to run for my life.

I say to

write

for it.

Ready?

We fuel our anger, saddnes, and tears,

into life, love, and hope

every time we pick up a pen.

Though we may feel hurt,

broken and damaged,

we write again and again.

Our anger slowly leaves us,

and the writing makes us free.

And when I write, the best thing is,

I can be me.

When I write, I am free.

My mind is blank,

I have writer's block.

The only rhyme I can think of

is dirty sock.

But, blank paper is opertunity.

Full of potientail.

Short times of writers block is a small fee

for the very best ideas.