I like Good Pens
With nice ink
And the right feel.

I like the pens
The ones so nice
They transform my writing
And make my regular words
Come to life on the page.

When I have
A Good Pen
I will write
Just to write,
Similar to how
I will talk
Just to talk
When my voice sounds
Just right.

When I read words
Written with a Good Pen
I stare at them a moment longer
Captivated.

But when I see
Words
And only
Words
Voiceless, Breathless,
I cringe and turn away,

In search of new words.

The words of beauty and thought
With elegance and meaning
As if the writer breathed
His life into their bodies.
His children are his words
And he cradles them within
Until they spill out
On spaces within lines
On pages of books unwritten.

When I see these words
They are not always written
With a Good Pen.
Sometimes they are sketched
In a crude sort of oil
Lacking the beauty
Of a Good Pen’s stroke.

But still I read them
And I trace them with my fingers
Stained with the makeshift ink
And the salt of the soul
Because these words are
Simply more than their ink
And their fathers aren’t defined
By the quality of their pens.