PEN AND PAPER

Writing, it's critics,
Yet with no instincts.

On a blank sheet of paper,
With my irksome pen and its ink,
With no ability to think,
With nothing to deliver.

Staring fainly at the paper,
All I wanted to do was write,
The timing didn't feel right,
But I couldn't wait till later.

Right on that spot
Came crawling was a thought,
Holding it still,
I gave it a shot.

Staring at my blank paper,
It was still plain, white and clear,
As my pen tapping stresses,
The bubbles of my emotions
Laying beneath the surface of my skin
Bursted and formed letters on the paper.

The days when my pen feels dreary and dull
Are just the worst of all,
And not being able to write at all
Makes everything worse.
A pen and paper just seems to understand me
Better than anyone would ever do.