A Sporadic Pen

My pen, the creator of stories, the revealer of secrets and truths, sits in the dark of my drawer. She waits, waits to be lifted up into the warmth of my hand and onto the pages unto which I speak unspoken words. The pages come alive, alive with so much emotion and an ungodly clarity comes to life. But I have no control of when the pen chooses when to write. When she writes, I am not here. I am away, so far, far away. She knows many languages. Cursive, Block, Poetry, she is a woman with fine tastes. But why she writes I’m not positive. Maybe to clear my head of the troubles of life. Perhaps to let the fantasies that roam my mind to come to life before the eyes of the world. But as the days pass, she becomes useless. For my new journal is alive and breathing with its pages taking in every ounce of emotion I feel. I know the Pen wants me back, gliding her across the maps of the horizontal lines she yearns to touch once more. She wants me to write on why I stopped writing. This is the first time I’ve written in about 2-3 months, so the Pen is dry, ink barely slipping through and scarring the page with her silent screams of the solitary mind behind it. Her sisters and her have come together in a night of writers block. They each one by one, enter my life, forcing themsleves into my hand so I write of my days. The days are a variety of colour. Love is a dominant subject but angst and anger undertone all seen. She doesn’t mind, as long as she’s in the hand of The Creator, she smirks. All she wants is one more story, the one to surpass all stories, her Creators, his friends, her own. It’s time to “write” the wrong and start the beginning of the end and the start of the final story.