Strokes of My Pen
Strokes Of My Pen
Blank sheets of paper had yellowed with age.
I wielded a pen, and with trembling hand,
My memories were written on every page,
As many flowed as a beach holds the sand.
Scrawled were my thoughts, line after line.
Drawn up from my soul, buried quite deep.
Were all those sad thoughts really mine?
I thought them locked in my heart for keeps.
Reflections of my past, by day and by night,
Refused to remain entombed and imprisoned.
Strokes of darkness that escaped to the light.
Released by my pen; it was a wise decision.
There is brandishing power in the pen I wield.
A weapon useful in place of a silent tongue.
It cannot protect me as though armor or shield,
But words can sting if they are properly flung.
Copyright © Lin Lane | Year Posted 2015
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