Gobs of ink
Drip out of the volatile black hole
Staining the virtuous paper forever
I know not whether I prefer
The idea of the pen
Or the pen itself.
Is there not a – sometimes debilitating- expectation
Upon picking it up?
Both an instrument of a written art
And a thing of my own demise,
Sometimes I have no choice
But to sign my life away.
A writer and a pen
Should be inseparable,
Just like a musician to her harp.
I alone know the pain a pen can inflict.
Does it matter more
What your pen writes
Or which pen you take with you?
When I am angry,
I find my pen much different
Then when I am otherwise inclined.
The paper is all filled up,
Now to mark my skin.
And brothers in arms
Would be weaponless
Were it not for
The ultimate ingenuity.
By blending the perfect consistency
I rekindle the idea of my own opinions
And express that which
Perhaps all I have truly learned
In my study of pens
Is that it really isn’t the pen
That makes the magic, but the ink.
Then again, maybe it’s me.
Is to think
And to write.
(Thanks for reading! Please comment below any changes I could make to improve this piece!)