I Know This Pen

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.