And you thought it was remarkable how timid my pen is. When I wrote, you called it meek, words in place of blows, of throws, of a man's brawn and an iron will, but these are monoliths. I drop them from my mouth and break, and build, and make, and kill. Because I am God, and I stir every star beneath my bleeding tongue. Every time you press hands together you are addressing my pen and I, so be careful what it is you haunt me with, I can crush everything you are, or have been, or will be. A poet does not shake because he is nervous, she shakes because she is dancing, the very choreography that created you, or I, it was called the beginning. 

     What you didn't know was that the universe is deep within the veins of a pen, standing eagerly to lay itself down on this paper at the scent of even the slightest provocation. Poets are life, and death, we are everything we've known, north and south. We are God.