Every poem I have written
Speaks in blue ink.
It stands sharp against these bold red lines,
Bleeds into the blank canvas,
That if a tear strikes its surface,
Perhaps,
You can see
How deep these ink veins flow.
How the ink
Pools
When Pen holds Paper close for more than just a brief moment,
Neither of them knowing what is going to happen next.
But Pen must move on,
For it cannot rest when it is creating something beautiful.
Words that stick to your fingers
Like battle scars.
There is a war of words at hand,
A war where Paper
And the mind of Pen cannot agree,
Cannot compromise.
Time begins to pass by.
But then Pen glosses across the nothingness,
Showing Paper that there is much more to life
Than a neat emptiness.
War becomes meaningless,
When two can fight the same battle together.

Pen speaks the truth.
When Paper turns their back,
Your words on the other
Side watch over you as you continue your journey.
The kids sitting around me,
Write with their tired heads on their desks,
Breathing with big lungs.
Threads of streaming music
Pour from their ears like waterfalls.
They write with Pencil.
A shiny chalk that beams in light,
But scratches Paper.
Lest they forget
The Eraser,
The headquarters of Pencil.
How thoughts can be erased so easily
Into little flakes that fly into the air,
As if they hardly existed in the first place.
Does anyone remember
That the Pen is mightier than the sword?