I know this pen is a life-giving vein: snap it in half...
I don't know where the droplets will land,
I know they'll find a home in those confines
be it college rule, wide rule; blue lines are just bars.
Maybe I'll break this pen. Why should I keep the tip grounded?
It can, will, fly to the four corners of the globe,
or paper, seeing as how I am the writer... in a sense, God;
Since I am God this is a world of my own creation, yet
Perhaps it is my prison. Maybe I'll break this pen...
When did I need it? I've manipulated my existence and
broke the shackles of reality with every inhalation,
meal, laugh, nap. The fine line blurs, the sly lie never does.
Maybe, just maybe, I will smash this pen!
And destroy this world! And piece it back together again
and from the ashes and carbon and time and pressure
a perfect blood diamond will form!
I stare at the currently useless utensil lying in my hand.
A pocket W.M.D, lack of application leaves it barren and sterile.
I still can't help but dream of the lives that shall gain aspirations, dreams,
through the tender caress of each flighty pen stroke, every committed line.
