My pencil is a Chinese native.
Factored so I can pretend to be creative
Writing’s addictive and my mind is active, I’m a practiced imaginative
Imagine: the paper I use was alive.
Primitive, growing positive, and now it…died
Although my words exercise the drive to survive,
The forest is deprived of what I say.
People in the congo slave away
For chips in my computer hardrive tray
Are my words worth the abusive pain
I’m an artist but no monet
I am privileged, a powerful paster, a word master
A human happily ever after, the king of laughter.
I have speech that switches a new chapter.
I write wrong.