From a Pen
Words dashing angrily from this pen;
Like teeth of the bear, they roar their dissent.
Kept waiting too long, they scream for release
And the chance to sink into soft white flesh.
If I let them free,
Will they turn their wrath on me,
Their creator?
Will I be the first victim of the bloody war
They wage inside this inert cold cylinder
Filled with innocuous blue ink?
Or will they turn their venomous attention
On the innocent reader of this deadly poem;
All unsuspecting and unknowing?
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