Many have said why do I write so much.
"I been listening to the flow of art of my pen".
The beautiful voices that have said to me to CONTINUE.
You can listen to my pen and
what it has said
to this piece of paper.
There are times where I can no longer see myself as a person.
Only what's coming out of my pen,
The ink I compare my self to.
But where has the emotions gone to?
If I'm only ink?
Emotions that I can never discribe.
Ink that crys on it own
For every movement my hand makes,
A different form of pain comes out.
Emotions that can only be described through this pen.
Excietment, happiness, pain and sarrow,
all coming out at once.
There are nights where I close my self to the world, while under the night light preferring to open up with my Pen.
The last drops of ink has spilled
An said out loud
A Pen without ink is a Pen without it's owners soul.