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Poem

My kryptonite is my pen,
As it makes me write stupid things.
Like gold-nosed trolls, pumpkins sharing dragons,
And tattoed Oracles peacocked out with rings.
My kryptonic pen is also pretty,
Like a silver bullet.
It compliments my vampiric ways,
Though weakens how I do it.
'It' being what I write,
Twenty-four hours a day;
Poem, quotes and short stories,
But always strange in what I say.
So why must I use this pen of kryptonite?
Because as weak as it makes me, it also gives me might!

After the one thousandth poem I did write,
The magic came this past halloween.
My fountain pen came to life,
Sprouting a pair of little wings.
I believe he wanted to write to me,
So I released my grasp to let him speak.
Then he scooted to the paper and started his groove,
With penmanship that was ever so clean and neat...
"Life has its up and downs
With every smile there is a frown.
You wrote for years with your heart,
Now it's time to give reality a start.
This season brings in weaves of magic,
With good times balanced with ones that are tragic.
Please keep me as your friend,
We got this! Till the end!!!"

A winged pen; Spirituluna,
Writing words of hope, love and grace.
Magical twirls, connecting curls,
Drawing wisdom when I seek faith.
Speak to me, Spirituluna,
tell me how to amble these floors,
that have been cursed by broken glass,
I need to traverse life's parkour!
Scribbling loud, Spirituluna,
"Your foe's are dragonflies that swarm,
their interest is for themselves,
you are the rose to of their thorns."
This I know, Spirituluna,
but how does a rose shed it's points,
to live a life free from danger,
what substance need I do anoint?
Whispy pen; Spirituluna,
"Their circus will not join your gate,
your innocence is your defence,
walk barefoot, you'll traverse this place!"

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