Pen to paper. It’s just an act.
My blood splashes on the white page, in a thick crimson stream of scribbles;
the words that let the world see a glimpse of a real me, a man I barely know myself sometimes.
Letters form words forming thoughts, these effortlessly move me on the inside . . .
And it’s all on the inside.
It’s a turn of a phrase, a sliver of irony, the forbidden scent of midnight – it’s the epiphany found in discovering a new way ‘in’ that creatively fills me in ways I’ve never known before.
But . . .
“it’s beautiful, I don’t get it, you know my heart because it thanks you, for a song, a tear, a possible secret,”
a page ripped from the internal hard drive of my life and it hurts sometimes,
but it’s a good kind of hurt, a hard to say prayer
Pen finds a fresh, virgin page as I deeply come to understand the fundamental human need to sail unchartered waters, deep and stormy, my own vast oceans of thought
Zhivago green flows thick from a 14K nib, subdued and with no land in sight
Maybe this is all I’ve ever really wanted.
Pen to paper.
It’s much more than an act.
It’s purely me.