No, sorry, I can’t lend you my pen.
It’s my weapon.
With it I can slay, throttle, scourge.
I can fire bullets into an air of smug superiority
Or plunge my blade through the animosity of a frozen heart.
And if I lose this weapon
And can’t replace it,
Inside me a warrior dies.
No, sorry, I can’t lend you my pen.
It’s my tool.
With it I can carve, chisel, grind.
I can drill through the stony silence of blind indifference
Or hammer my truth into dismissive wooden minds.
And if I lose this tool
And can’t replace it,
Inside me a craftsman dies.
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