My pencil is a Chinese native.

Factored so I can pretend to be creative

Writing’s  addictive and my mind is active, I’m a practiced imaginative

Imagine: the paper I use was alive. 

Primitive, growing positive, and now it…died

Although my words exercise the drive to survive,

The forest is deprived of what I say.

People in the congo slave away

For chips in my computer hardrive tray

Are my words worth the abusive pain

I’m an artist but no monet  

I am privileged, a powerful paster, a word master

A human happily ever after, the king of laughter.

I have speech that switches a new chapter.

I write wrong.