A solitary pencil drags itself,
forlornly, estatically, and furiously,
across a lined page. A page that was
previously devoid of any emotions.
That pencil is special like all of its brethern writing instruments.
Instruments that put tears in their literal form. They pen all the anger
that boils up in the souls of the those writting. Or being written for.
Oh, how mighty is that one pen?
Mighty enough to transform without magic.
Wicked enough to stir trouble where needed.
Fiesty enough to bring smiles to depressed faces.
Compassionate enough to shed light in the darkest corners.
I write when corners need light.
When faces need smiles.
When issues need attention.
When my emotions need transformation.
Sometimes, I write,
Others, I create,
Most times, I emote.