My pen transcends and makes amends it makes comments it makes common sense makes threats makes poems and makes applications it makes graffiti it makes signatures and makes autographs and makes plans and makes plots it makes sentences.

My pen, my best friend, my weapon of choice, translate thoughts into voice. Represents me my pen sharp as any other sword deadlier than any gun to begin in the end of War let the ink pour from my pen.

To a mortal, it’s a portal, to transcend from the informal to the informant to the infamous to the infernal flame that blaze pages in my journal.

Wild words written in the wind time in rhyme intertwined within the pen-etentary.

Pentacle, a pinnacle of scripted spectacle.

Both respectable and Despicable both disposable and indispensable. Both terminal and medicinal.

Expresser of a twisted principle, disciplined disciple of discourse and dialectics.

Pen, forever in my palm and fingers,

Some have Venom, some have stingers,

Some have fangs, some have liquors.

I

have

a pen.