I love the white of the paper, but it won't stay that way
As long as I have pen in hand, and something I must say
I write down all my feelings, my hopes, and my dreams
Just trying to make sense of a world that's not always what it seems
I love the smell of the ink as it flows on to the page
Without me my pen is emotionless no joy, no sorrow, no rage
It's just a tool that when applied lets my thoughts flow free
At the same time the ink entrapping it all, for me and the world to see
Am I a writer ? I don't know. What I do know is I like to write
And as long as I have pen in hand, and pages clean, and white
The pen will move, the ink will flow, my thoughts will be contained
On page after page of paper, some-what neatly arranged...
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