how majestic are you,
dearly loved black pencil
with this dark dust I scribe
the deep desires that arise
from the fountain of mine life

it is with your very stroke
that gets my silence broke
and your countless bends
there, my stillness ends
oh dear black agent,
you become apparent
as the messenger of soul
ideas are my shawl
with you I spread my words
the longings in my hoard
be it hard and raw
mishaps or against the law

once I lost my powerful voice,
in the world of nonsense noise
now with you I am alive
you sketch my life
and the world sees me at last
this is what I love about writing
when I am speechless or voiceless
I am not running wordless
when I lost my sound in the phantom of idiosyncrasies
my pen is the sword of my tongue
to writing, my pen shall bleed beyond all ease
For what things soever were written, were written for our learning… Romans 15:4
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