You hold the slender pen just like a lover,
Its touch brings quiet joy into the soul;
You turn the textured notebook’s waiting cover,
To write is not a race, but gentle stroll.
This crafted art of hand is cherished dearly,
In cursive loops or print, it matters not;
The drifting thoughts begin to form so clearly,
Unwinding tangled strings of hurried thought.
The ink upon the page commands the mind,
A tactile grace that sets the senses free,
A simple peace of rare and wondrous kind,
As waking words reveal what thoughts can be.
So take the pen, as Shakespeare wrote before,
And let your soul spill out forevermore.
