me the pen

Its me. A drippin pen without ink. Used to the benefit. Drained in a half clinched fist. Spread thin to become visually stained. By the hand claimed. Pressed firmly for the need. So words can breathe. In color fulfilling the curve. At times revealing then nerves. Yet my job is done here now. Thrown away like sound. One thing I couldn't give. Only able to right words as they live.

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