A licence to write.
Killer lines, execute on sight.
A licence to make
audiences gasp in delight,
or squirm in their seats,
tears flooding their eyes.
A licence to excite
or put wrongs right.
A licence to use your pen
to fix a world
that often feels more than
a little bit broken.
A licence to let words flow,
feeling them erupt out
like rivers of lava
from an angry volcano.
We pick apart our lines,
to feel the way it sits in the mind,
To try to make it stick tightly,
a sticking plaster to fit every mood,
or at least some superglue to fix any
thoughts that have become broken
or just everso slightly unscrewed.
It isn't something we take lightly,
the pen so mighty,
it's something we caress,
harness close to our chests,
embrace in times of loneliness.
Feed it, nurture it, invest our love
We give our pen so much.
We open wounds to fill it with blood.
We cry on its nub, to sate its thirst.
We cling on tight,
when the world is about to burst.
Then we scribble down
the resulting verse.
Thanks for reading
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