Tue, 08/13/2013 - 02:49 -- Souki94


I am not a lover,
Nor fighter.
I have weak convictions,
My own rules to break.
Without money, sleep, or a moment to spare-
I have a pen.

With this pen I stress and think and create.
With this pen I cut through calamity in search of elusive happiness.
It may be hopeless, it is certainly melancholy, but it is my own melody of light for which I hunt in this dark world.

My ink is my savior, for any holy being ought to seek those with fates worse than mine to give favors.
My tool consoles, revives, unleashes the never-sated beast with prose to pose for those who chose to pause
Uncapping a well of sorrows, hazy memories, Pandora's box of laughter and all her flaws.

It becomes a curse, the bane of my being.
It becomes my embarrassment,
Skeletons singing from within the coat closet.

Invisible a moment ago.
Hidden by
My indestructible wall
My impenetrable ego
My gun walk.

But let a drop leak from my pen and the wall shall self destruct
Buried among the rubble of bricks you will find me, scribbling without heed-
Until my pen runs dry.

I share these secrets with my pen, who whispers them to paper,
Who spreads them to the world.

It becomes my outlet, the basis of my existence.
It becomes my diary, quietly scripting all that passes through my head.

Permanence comes with such a pen
And in this abusive, obtrusive relationship where I sell my soul as I press down the tip

I receive peace.



This is positively beautiful. I love the word choice!
Well done.

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