My pen is a heaven sent miracle.
A quill as if blessed by bird.

It dances cross fields of white
anointing page.

It gracefully moves
with intention to bond
inside readers eyes and breath.

It becomes sword of light
to aid a sad readers heart
and opens windows
for harmony.

My pen is like metronome
that ticks consistently
to meter rhyme.
And drifts with lyrical song
that echoes Divinely.

Yes, my pen is a heaven sent miracle,
and I am the poet that holds its essence.

Such relief I felt
When I stopped holding my breath
Waiting until I was told I could speak

So free I felt
When I stopped holding my pen
Waiting until I was told what I could write

So powerful I feel
Knowing I can bring you to your knees
With only my tongue and my pen

They are on the tip of her tongue.
The words she wishes to say.
Internally, her mind is racing.
Her thoughts, jumbled.

How can she tell him what's on her mind without him turning away?
How can she explain that when he is around, the words stick.
That when she thinks about what to say she becomes sick.

She grabs a sheet of paper,
and a pen.

Her thoughts begin to untangle,
the storm in her mind becomes calm.
The words that were stuck like glue begin to flow onto the page.
They flow with ease, and with grace,
right onto that perfect , white, page.

Does she dare show him this page?
Does she dare open herself up?
Does she dare leave herself vulnerable?

Does she dare?
With a pen and that piece of paper in hand,
she asks herself
"Do I dare?"