That night rain made the skies look like wet parchment

but the only wet paper was the tear stained page the author used.

 The ink made the white paper dark.

a masterpiece created from a blank canvas, a pen, and emotion

because the swing of a pen is the only way he can fight a war within himself

to spill ink as a metaphor for blood

It was one of those moments where a pen and paper were all that life was

 He touched the pen to the paper

and everything changed

no longer was it a pen and a page,

but a knife to flesh

The rain peppered his roof like machine gun fire

and thunder crashed like the report of distant artillery

he shook, sweat soaking his forehead

there was no denying that this was war

with pen in hand he attacked his notebook

angry at whatever it was that day

Change. Love. Life. Death

Whatever made him angry,

he was always angry,

and that’s the root of his war.

he just wanted to kill his anger

but when fighting anger with rage

one would never win.