Black ink flows on a page

transcribing ideas, thoughts; so very lovely.

The poet sits, his hands clenched in rage

for he has forgotten his own story.

The pen streaks the paper,

an eternal mark has been left.

The poet rises, not willing to give in to anger.

Books, magazines, caffeine; he would consider any of them a gift.

It can be held by many who speak words

though so rarely do they mean anything.

Nothing. He sits and picks up his sword.

Scribbles turn to doodles to thoughts to words.

The pen glides across the paper

transcribing ideas, thoughts- so the story goes.

The poet writes much to his splendor.

Why? Because simply, the pen flows.