Pen and Pencil
The product is not interwoven with the vines
In my skin, it’s deep and refined, with each rhyme
And each design that it’s in, each word confides as defined
behind the line, to align, my inner-king to speak his mind—
No telling with the mood that he’s in, I try restoring heaven
But I’m left with more questions that deafen my blessings
The impression wears thin, and life has more lemons,
If driven to get them, then the sky’s where I’m heading
Now, to swiftly reimbursing my soul for the pain
I’ve caused, the way my brain handles the chains
Because, I’ve always lost my ways, in those days I wane,
I seesaw right into the haze of purple and champagne
Caught up in theses vines again, I reach for the pen,
Tangled in these thorns and horns, the abstract caves in.
I’ve settled into this pine box for confessing my sins to him
I’ve written them again and again, yet confusion sets in.
My mind drifts far from halos and the day glow.
I wrote lines for C-notes, and wrestle through egos,
curse those who steal from me using stenciled placebos
and those callow to the motive of a pencil and the credo
I always tell people, you’re stronger than you realize
and my eyes see strong reflections of that real guy
and his skies, but birds keep humming, and bullets fly
names etched on each cartridge case, those planning to baptize—
And those bullets take pride in ending their journey
Each one thirsty for a flood of parables and stories
Some stories are dilatory but fit the allegory
It is never too long before we know the territory
But no bullets will my chamber bind, by design
Those bullets found life within my mind and they define
Me, all those rotten vibes that were intertwined
Were realigned and redefined to fly free
When I grab the pen and the alphabet, my palms sweat
The habit of writing outside the lines upsets
me, and I reach for the pretense of a cigarette to vent
I know the pack is illusory but addiction besets me.
So swung swords supplement like dirty pennies there are plenty,
and the real pens and pencils I have will offend you, if you let me
I envy those too ignorant to see and who ape ready,
When I put in work I’m deadly, and such threats seem elementary.
Though it’s messy My pencil perfects the dreams I’ve seen at night
I astral project and reflect like a beam of light
The aftereffect is a scheme I write to teem with might
My words interconnect to make the soul free and right.
I know this poem is trite not meant as an impressive piece,
But words are my lease on countless loose-leaf sheets
I compose my allegory in enraptured caprice
Weaving through nostalgia and many entendre, to find my crease.
That is no smudge left on the parchment untouched,
But a simple tear, profound to some, to me it is my judge.
When shed, I was numb, desperately in need of a nudge,
Drained too much of pure emotion, my muscles would not budge.
I opened this river of ink, it was not long for me to sing,
And with confidence, to bring me to the well of everything,
To shatter the rift between gods and men, this torrent pissing
Away, enveloping the world with a plan, the sights I will bring.
My haven of lead and ink, of wood and plastic
My veins like an IV drip, the pen a needle so tragic
It drips forth, and plays like a gramophone in silent static
Awaiting the melodies, the cascades of life and magic.
These pens and pencils I speak of, are not objects to heave,
They are words to aggrieve, to save certain souls, to deceive,
To fill in holes when the plot twist screams to weave, but to perceive
Something so grand, so received, maybe you start to believe—
that you are the writer, that makes the reader seize the empathy,
On their couch cushion, sipping merlot, they find love and ecstasy,
Not with your choice of words, but how your words make them feel,
how endlessly, they visualize each phrase you’ve interwoven as weaponry.
Each phrase you compose with a pen should deeply puncture
Right into the neocortex, causing sensations to rupture
And each maxim should strip the ramparts of an erudite youngster,
like sweet nectar on the tip of the tongue, it makes them hunger.
They lust for pen ink from that nib, that endless well of wisdom
Each rhythmic stroke of ancient script becomes their brand-new vision,
A kingdom you created, a breathing organism,
One, with veins coursing with the blood of lyricism—
My air of imagination is ripe with a small touch of cynicism,
my words and thoughts, they are ruled by imperialism
they are solely mine to release from the inner prison
to enter the system, and wait for their turn at criticism.
…They sound so big, so grand, yet in my hand not at all
You see, they are extensions of me, ones I knew of already
I hope to use them meritoriously, like all good writers would be,
This way I know if my pencils grew from the same tree…