MY PEN; MY WEAPON

My pen is my weapon,

As a sword is to a fighter.

My fingers stay wrapped around it, clutching it firmly,

Hands steady around it,

Eyes fixed on the target.

And then it strikes, stroke after stroke, curve after curve.

And every time it strikes a blank sheet,

Something dies, either pain or hope.

I’m either warring with myself, or against me.

I’m either highlighting darkness or birthing light.

With it I’ve fought battles, seen and unseen.

Silenced enemies, sometimes my mind included.

With it I’ve birthed realities,

Painted a canvas with words,

Formed lyrics to a song well sung with letters,

Written stories of lives well lived, or even poorly lived.

With it I’ve hidden truths,

Wrapped them in letters of the alphabet,

Arranged in plain terms,

Yet almost impossible to read to the point of understanding.

My pen is my weapon,

My strongest ally in the fiercest battle.

We’ve fought, and we’ve overcome,

Even the greatest battles of the mind

With just a few strikes,

Even the deepest emotions

With just a few curves.

Yet within my pen lies a portion of who I am,

A means of identification, you may assume.

And every time the ink flows across the sheet, a part of me is left there:

My insecurities and flaws, wanting to stay hidden, yet begging for a chance to be seen.

Hoping to bring comfort to a breaking heart,

A silent reminder, “you are not alone.”

My pen is the greatest avenue

For Him to communicate strength,

To bring hope, to give light,

Light that gives life

To every eye that sees.

And so when I hold my pen,

I hold my staff of authority.

And everything we birth

Comes from wells of authenticity.

~Ruach’s Light