My Sword

My pen hits the paper with the resounding echo
of the millions of screams and cries
not heard over thousands of years!

The force with which I apply pigment to pulp,
far greater than the forces that have beat
past truths to a pulp!

I weild the feather of my quill like the power of a tornadoe
that pushes straw through stop signs, as it's lines
cut through the steel armor of ignorance
and the walls of deciet and opression!

It's shaft not wavering under the load of stone lids,
I pry off of third eyes!

I balance upon it's tip the very berth of the world
and all it's hopes and dreams!

I use it to lay open the belies of lies,
so wide, with such ease that blind eyes can see!

I shoot words from it that strike like lighting with their electricity,
the intensity of which rolls on like thunder throught the ages!

I swing it like a club to break open the shells,
of small men that hide behind big things!

But it is not about me, or my pen
for as it is just an instrument of words
I am but the mechanism that opperated the instrument!

I unsheath it, to unleash the word upon the vast blank expanse of the sheet
only, for the word has no other way to appear there
and the pen has no other way to leave it there!