MY PEN

My pen I change as easily as I would change my paper. Yet it is not the pen nor the paper I use which makes me a writer. It is I, myself alone, that makes me a writer.

Every paragraph, every sentence, every word, even the very lines that make up the letters I chose are not merely marks on a page, but are myself poured out in agonizing measure drop by drop. Years, perhaps even decades I may suffer through the torment and anguish of cutting through the lies and insecurities of my own being to briefly touch that cherished ground of truth I have long sought for my thoughts. Perhaps never.

And then to hear and read in all too familiar words the painful echoes of publishers and editors alike. How many times shall I endure the failures before I succumb to the pain and slowly fade away from this endeavor? With each try I become colder, neither feeling nor caring what my struggles may prove. Long ago I’ve come to a resolution that guides my spirit now. ‘Tis my pen, my paper, my words, and my thoughts. So to hell with you all for I care not for your thoughts.

THE END