Move pen, Move

It is hard, sometimes, to make your hands do what you want them to.
Most of the time, I just want my hands to move, to show me that they aren't lost in a plain pathetic world of gray matter and no imagination to soothe their broken bones.
I just wish that they would make my pen look like it has been made by a writer who is worth the time.
Come one hands! Don't fall asleep, cling yourselves to poverty in a world that wisdom is more valuable than wealth.
Come on hands, make your mark on all the lies that man told you couldn't be done. Come on hands!
Perhaps the problem isn't in my hands, it's of my pen.
Move pen, move.
Write about the pain that grieves my heart and cuts at the surface of my soul when your ink spills on yellow paper, causing vintage nicnaks to get younger, and spoil the scent of your ink.
Move pen, move.
Make the value of a ruby wither to dust and form a war that makes the world's feet go numb.
Write a song of frustration and anger that causes steam to rise off the yellow paper, and let all the other writing machines be jealous of your machinery.
Move pen, move!
Let the sorrows of my heart pour onto your backbone, so that the pain that I have been harboring for so long will be let out, and my hands can finally be released of their duties as hands.
Move pen, move!
Why couldn't you be a spoon so that my mouth can eat happiness instead of swallowing pride, watering my tongue to dignity and self respect, which my throat has yet to choke over?
Why couldn't you be a book so that my eyes can read you, and they didn't have to burn due to tears that were caused by the aroma of your black ink?
Move pen, move!
Move pen, move!
Write down my hurts and pains, so that I can burn them and never see them again.
Move pen, move.

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