Dancing and shaking up and down,
Sleek or Shabby with head or not,
She moves uncovered across his fibres.
On there she goes making words her spots.

Blue or black you might find her,
Slim or fat or there between.
with each her move, her subjects smile
on them she moves a thousand miles

Sometimes she’s green or red or gold.
Colour is subjective, aye I say.
One thing is sure, she’s never old.
For when she goes her blood does flow,
making messages and words her spots.

Oh, No, she’s not a human girl.
My writs depicts not one that breathes.
Not such for whom men dare face hell,
I hail the Queen of books, its leaves.

I write of no other than

The Writer’s Pen


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