It is the pen that writes
Which shall choose the words
For that which it wants
To be heard
It is the paper that asks
To be written upon
And a book to opened
To be read and deciphered
It is the table that talks
To a spirit of kind
To be placed upon
A thought of mind
And a call from an essence
Of a fathomable sort
But the words and the pen
Do just distort
But the poet wants peace
Inside of their heart
And the reader amends
What the Poet did start