A pen and a writer walked down the streets,
painting the world with words.

Peace,
love,
pain,
sadness.

All in one, one in all.

Down the alley ways,
through the bleak offices,
into the minds of all.

Taking their place among the their hearts,
glimmering like stars,
beating with life like the blood coursing through.

A river of ink offers such a simple form of comfort,
they are but our language waved into tales.

Peace poems,
Love stories,
Painfully sad stories of life and death,
Sad stories of loss.

All but words,

all but letters,

all but thoughts placed on paper.

I sighed, laying my head on my keyboard. God… What TIME is it? Bleck. 10… I have school.. But… They must be written! I must share! Ug… So… _snore

We are but writers,

they are but paint brushes.

The world is our canvas,

let’s paint the world.