A pen, I think, could be the soul of a man. Thousands of emotions lay hidden within it's ink, Simple in design, yet more powerful than the mightiest weapon. Love can be expressed with a few strokes of processed wood, Hate is revealed with a passion not known to spoken words, Memories, the future, all contained within plastic walls, The essence of human existence lays cradled in my fingers, Without a voice it weaves the greatest stories known, Unthinking, it knows the solution to impossible problems, To it's users it is the door to imagination, yet the ignorent loath it's smooth touch. Yes, a pen is my soul, shining through in ink, My feelings now revealed, I shall move on to another verse.
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