Sunday, May 23, 2010

Writer's Anthem

One day, I sat down with a notebook and ink pen on my lunch break, feeling like I needed to write something. But I didn't know where to start. I didn't have anything particular to say.

So I asked myself, "Why do you write at all?" This poem was my answer. I wonder if other writers will read this and find themselves in any of it. As always, I welcome your feedback!

Writer's Anthem (with this pen)

with this pen

I’m equipped to flip the script

I craft astute quips

and crack literary whips

to make words fall in line

with this pen

I can travel through time

and correct narcissistic histories

shining light on truths once enshrouded in mysteries

with this pen

I break rules and amend statutes

redistributing the loot of the educated few to the masses

with this pen

I appropriately label jackasses

and call them out on their classless pursuit

of plain old bullshit dressed in a fancy suit

with this pen

I settle disputes and increase the peace

pealing away conflict to expose the serenity underneath

with this pen

I declare war

as I journal I murder every force

that undermines every cause that I stand for

with this pen

I’m engaging the enemy

staging battles on pages

and channeling fits of rage

into powerful displays of the purest way

that I know how to fight

With this pen

I plan to discover the limits of my might

as I write percussive campaigns

against treasonous refrains

that try to claim victory

over my sanity

with this pen

and its unlimited supply of ink

every phrase that I think

brings me closer to the brink of solution

and becomes proof of my evolution

into my position as the divinely appointed opposition

against pointless, hurtful traditions

and maliciously imposed contradictions

that if left unchecked would stifle the ambitions

of the hearts of humanity,


with this pen

I can’t forget to check my own vanity

I own all my flaws with honesty and attitude

reminding myself to consciously walk in gratitude

with this pen

I empty my head of thoughts broken

cloven and worn thin by daily carcinogens

fulfilling cycles where first I sin then am forgiven

With this pen

I write freely ‘til my soul lies barren

begging like blank pages to be filled time and again

I write

because with this pen

I win