The magic pen

I was given a magic pen. It was given to me the day I was born. I bet mom never knew and dad never really cared. Neither did I.

The magic pen writes. It does its best. It writes the history of the world. And it writes my history as well.

The magic pen goes forward and back. It writes even when my hands shake. There can't be regrets.

The magic pen has gone through many pages. Some lovely, nice pages. Some tough pages too. But they say it's the way people's books are written. I guess I just don't know.

My pen lives in my heart, and it can be friends with my mind sometimes. It has got some blue ink, some blue ink difficult to be erased. You know?

This pen of mine has read some others' pens. Things people have written. Things that have happened. Things that have got their mark. It's History after all. You can't run away from it. You can only feel guilty, my dear.

Pens have gone through shame, through cruelty and wars. They have gone through the life of the winners, who never lost any battle, if you think about it. That's the mystery they won't solve, them the pens. The justice of life. Is there any?

I was given a pen the day I became someone. I was probably only a child, but I started to write. I had no idea what it was, though. I have written so much, even though some of the stuff I've wrote were actually lived. I was given a pen I'm not supposed to lose. And sometimes I just wanna throw it away. Have it away from me. Have it where the things I write about are - kinda far.

I don't know what I'm writing about. That's why it makes sense.