With this pen, I paint an image of you. Not a portrait, but a true portrayal of you. The ink flows into words that dance across your hair. The end of each sentence marking a cross that you bear.
A painting would be suitable for some. With beautiful colors, cascading down on you from above. But, those colors mearly hide the truth behind your smile. With the right shade of light and a light smear, it becomes a cosmetic fix for a while.
My words flow through every ***** and fill every shadow. They bring all light to the surface, for the reader to see within the shallows.
The image of you that I create can be vivid and great. But with this pen, my words can also design your fate.
You see the truth here is that my words hold all truth. They leave no place for lies to hide, with each word holding proof.
In the readers eyes, my words are you… With this pen, I can create you… With this pen, I can finish you...
- Brandon K. Stephenson
The underestimated writer and the power within his pen.
My pen is a wand. It can write a curse or a powerful charm. My pen is a mirror. It can show you a monster or a beautiful figure. My pen is a key. It can free you from a trapped door or it can lock you inside that door until the oxgen runs out and you can't breath. My pen is a weapon. It will fight righteous battles or make a gruesome dissection. My pen is a balancing scale. It is a balancing scale because it tilts when the yin & yang of my being begins to out weight one other. Nothing is safe from my pen if i choose it not to be, my pen writes freely without filters or censorship. My pen is a ship in the sea unable to maintain equilibrium set on a course to land. One day it will stay still, but on that day my pen will run out of ink.
The small but ample cottage tucked in among the trees with large trees like bedposts. A small hum of excitement stirs the air. The ocean kissed sea air moves past the cottage searching for just a peak at her.
But not tonight, the windows drawn tight, and still sweating from the warmth there by the muted figures in the flames. Just a glimpse of her edges out from the corner of my eye. And only she warms me in a way, that even now the figures in the flames seem less willing to speak her name.
With her heat comes a light, and with her light the words are more clear and the beauty of season more evident. She is a muted flame edging out of the corner of my eye. Kissing me quietly as she drifts off in to cozy corners of my mind.