A pen and some paper
On some paper with a pen I write
About two things that initiated blight that made me who I am
It has been long past due time for the crops to be harvested
This disease has spread throughout my mind
Clouding my pupils couldn’t see the accents around my accentuated borders. Cages
Thrown away the key
Dying under false pretenses of obscurity
All these hands down my throat Reaching my hand down this retroactive omnibus
Throwing up all my contents onto this paper
I found the key and here it is
A pen and paper. In this hand is this ink and parchment
Two things that brought absolution and betterment to someone desperate to find a voice
Pen. Ink instantaneous imagination incorporated alongside idle venom
Allowing my instantaneous ideologies to imbue themselves onto
Paper. Prodigy’s practice pursue the pretenses to praise and power
This pen and paper allowed me a gift of creativity and opportunity
Opening doors once closed
New venues to explore chores are now hobbies
I was never a fan of writing
Was never great at it, never great at order
With the outlines and guidelines
Could never get it quite right, research papers are nightmares
And being concise in speech and questions is an attempt
To which I continually unsucceed
Tires blown, gonna need a couple spares
Try again, stop, rephrase, speak up, stand still, focus,
Stop, be specific, stop
Years of struggling and I’m still stumbling
But each step I collapse upon meets me a little higher each time, the farther the fall
And i remember the first time I wrote about zombies and superheroes
And the second time I wrote about people and places and times that passed
And the third time I realized I hated it
Then when the next time came I had nothing to write about
And we are back to the following hand
When all I heard were tick tocks because I had nothing to write on just the passing of the clock
And I remember the last time that it was meaningless
I remember the last time I let my ink guided prose start meaning less
When a baptism introduced a new story
Still being put together
Continually being written Begrudgingly being righted
And eventually the pen and paper united
To blot out the times I rejected these gifts and the moments when correction and engagement
Were met with absent “I do’s” and an enamored hold to apathetic distraction
And… Maybe… Maybe a broken pen isn’t so bad after all.

This is my pen, my stage, my piano, my page, my weapon, my dance, my pose, and my blue, red, and withering rose,
Death and life aren’t as much strangers as they are familiars.
And sometimes we have to kill our cages so that our voices can be heard.