My Writer’s sword


A writer’s sword is a pen

Green, blue, red, black, yellow ink

Inside a long plastic contraption

It spews words exempt for bigotry

And hatred.

A writer’s pen stops magic from happening during a

Writer’s block.

The only time when a pen is immobile

Suspended in the air

Frozen in time

Or laid aside in frustration and immaculate rage.

But soon in the coming days, weeks, or months

That block is dismantled, and the writing


The writer’s pen tell stories of fiction, truth maybe


The writer is concentrating very hard.

His brow scrunched up into a tepid vision of

What it is he will write.

A writer seemingly doesn't have to eat or sleep

He lives off the words scribbled down akwardly in his notes.

A writer doesn't have to bathe or shower

She simply uses the wet wipes lain quietly on her desk

Next to her laptop, her deodorant, her Hershey’s candy wrapper, her meal

From last night, her many water bottles, her bra she tossed after she came

From Sunday church service, her horribly written, crossed out drafts and

The moldy half eaten cheese sandwich she made a week ago.

The writer writes until her fingers are bend as the cramps begin

To become unbearable.

The veins in her hands pop up, beneath the skin during the grueling process.

But she doesn't stop, not yet, her only breaks are to relieve the eye strain of

looking at words for too long.

Or for the casual bathroom break.

She writes wherever, whenever.

She will write on a piece of paper

Or on a wad of bubble gum wrapper.

She reads anything she can

Get her hands on, because it expands her mind.

A writer do not need to breathe air

For her tales breathes life into her.

Whether poetry, prose or a research paper

In the end all I need is my writer’s sword.



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