My Pen

Flowing with the rhythms,

a melding of idea and ink.

With a sweeping, swirl of hand,

brought forth from the way I think.

I feel my energy flowing,

right into the ballpoint tip.

Electrically charged by brain waves

coursing through my finger's grip.

My pen is the connection,

that binds my worded thought.

Sometimes I can't keep up the pace,

of a continued poetic onslaught.

It sometimes seems to take over,

as though I've lost control.

My fingers cramp, my mind reels,

the ink bleeds from my soul.

There's times I've had to replace it,

when it does runs dry.

The flow can never be staunched,

for I have an endless supply.

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