The ink that feeds it has stopped flowing, there must be a clot. Cause I swear my brain and heart are full. I have words, feelings. This pen refuses to write, my brain is overflowing with thoughts, my heart is bleeding with melodies of gongs and harps. I need this pen to listen, I need it to mimick my beating heart. I need this recorded. I've never felt this, I've never thought such. What if it never happens again. I need this pen to write, I need it to hear, to respond, to jot down. In green, yellow, red and white. This is history in the making, this is a kaleidoscope, what the Greeks had in mind when they said beautiful beauty. A canvas I once painted with my tiny hands, what the old mind saw as chaos, but the young spirited soul recognised as beauty, a beautiful beauty. I'M WILLING THIS PEN TO WRITE. Such historical events cannot pass by without the proper attention. WRITE!
Thursday, 12 April 2012
The ink that feeds it has stopped flowing, there must be a clot. Cause I swear my brain and heart are full. I have words, feelings. This pen refuses to write, my brain is overflowing with thoughts, my heart is bleeding with melodies of gongs and harps. I need this pen to listen, I need it to mimick my beating heart. I need this recorded. I've never felt this, I've never thought such. What if it never happens again. I need this pen to write, I need it to hear, to respond, to jot down. In green, yellow, red and white. This is history in the making, this is a kaleidoscope, what the Greeks had in mind when they said beautiful beauty. A canvas I once painted with my tiny hands, what the old mind saw as chaos, but the young spirited soul recognised as beauty, a beautiful beauty. I'M WILLING THIS PEN TO WRITE. Such historical events cannot pass by without the proper attention. WRITE!
