My pen bleeds bloody ink that it simply can't sustain.

The ink pours out the essence of me on to blank paper.

When my ink and paper touch, all that is permanent shifts.

Biting my nails is useless, because I have writing.

A tingling sensation intrudes the place where the words abide.

Then the words infect my arm, forearm, hand, and fingers.

"get to work," I whisper, and they respond with movement that is gentle.

As if stroking metal with metal, sparks fly when then ink and paper meet.

Almost intimately, they kiss each other passionately for a time unknown.

Beauty like no other, so intricate yet broad and simple.

This magic stirs the inside of me, simply because my pen bleeds bloody.