A writer’s sword is a pen
Green, blue, red, black, yellow ink
Inside a long plastic contraption
It spews words exempt for bigotry
A writer’s pen stops magic from happening during a
The only time when a pen is immobile
Suspended in the air
Frozen in time
Or laid aside in frustration and immaculate rage.
But soon in the coming days, weeks, or months
That block is dismantled, and the writing
The writer’s pen tell stories of fiction, truth maybe
The writer is concentrating very hard.
His brow scrunched up into a tepid vision of
What it is he will write.
A writer seemingly doesn't have to eat or sleep
He lives off the words scribbled down akwardly in his notes.
A writer doesn't have to bathe or shower
She simply uses the wet wipes lain quietly on her desk
Next to her laptop, her deodorant, her Hershey’s candy wrapper, her meal
From last night, her many water bottles, her bra she tossed after she came
From Sunday church service, her horribly written, crossed out drafts and
The moldy half eaten cheese sandwich she made a week ago.
The writer writes until her fingers are bend as the cramps begin
To become unbearable.
The veins in her hands pop up, beneath the skin during the grueling process.
But she doesn't stop, not yet, her only breaks are to relieve the eye strain of
looking at words for too long.
Or for the casual bathroom break.
She writes wherever, whenever.
She will write on a piece of paper
Or on a wad of bubble gum wrapper.
She reads anything she can
Get her hands on, because it expands her mind.
A writer do not need to breathe air
For her tales breathes life into her.
Whether poetry, prose or a research paper
In the end all I need is my writer’s sword.