That night rain made the skies look like wet parchment
but the only wet paper was the tear stained page the author used.
The ink made the white paper dark.
a masterpiece created from a blank canvas, a pen, and emotion
because the swing of a pen is the only way he can fight a war within himself
to spill ink as a metaphor for blood
It was one of those moments where a pen and paper were all that life was
He touched the pen to the paper
and everything changed
no longer was it a pen and a page,
but a knife to flesh
The rain peppered his roof like machine gun fire
and thunder crashed like the report of distant artillery
he shook, sweat soaking his forehead
there was no denying that this was war
with pen in hand he attacked his notebook
angry at whatever it was that day
Change. Love. Life. Death
Whatever made him angry,
he was always angry,
and that’s the root of his war.
he just wanted to kill his anger
but when fighting anger with rage
one would never win.