Quirks

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?