The Pen is a Mystic

Until I ripped into the words,

laying them on paper,

I couldn’t make sense of this mind,

in all its twisted labor.

Until I took it apart,

one by one,

surrendering my thoughts

until it was done.

Writing is cathartic

and healing in its ways;

I scooped out the bad

and laid it bare for days.

The good bubbled forth

and spread over like paint;

bleeding over the dusty parts

and leaving them faint.

To those that think

writing is a waste of time,

haven’t yet tasted

the words of the sublime.

It brings out the best

and tramples on the worst;

carrying a message

which will no longer curse.

The soul drips with fire

and seals with loud claps;

making amends to the world,

taping it shut and leaving it wrapped.

For one to open

and two to show;

the pen is a mystic,

in all its ebbs and flows.

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