My mind is at ease, familiar click of the keys as I write down these words, taking me back to that happy place. The perennial pen that produces my thoughts, undeniable taught with wisdom, courage, and understanding. The slow flow of a constant show to unravel the answer of me. Tapping into the magical ore within, drawing out inspiration, pulling through desperation, it’s going to be my innovation.
The words seek to be approved, I bust my way through to be improved, tapping the magical well until the keys start to swell, it’s either heaven or hell, as my words form a shell of my utter existence. Like the glittery firebugs that light up the night, electrical synapses from my brain power the prose that flows down like rain, until I am completely dry. But satisfaction never comes, as the magical ore refills once more, and the magical pen starts in again, pulling me through the gates to a peaceful bed of literary resistance.