I picked up my pen only to begin where i left off, the words are so inticing i had to take a second off, the spirit in this pen is writting very vigorously, the paper has no chance to race me, speaking in tongues and flowing with the river as my pen talks it lets you know it's never been a beginner, always truth never fake to acknowledge this man, a write so prominent it had to jump to my left hand, stating phrases only the great Dr. King would say, praise the lord in jesus name and the pen lays down and pray, my writing are serious as the days are long, my words are long as the pen continues writes my mind begins to ponder,new ideas as my lines begin to vanish and thick words to cover them up, a way to write is with your heart, opening up speaking the truth as if you are true. There is no better way to paint a picture then visual confirmation, you allow people to hold a mirror to their faces to see the beauty instilled inside of them, you give them your heart to let them know what your pen has been feeling, and you open your mind so they can read your thoughts, deeper in the train of thought the mist of your brain lets out beautiful words, to touch like a pitcher and throw it fast like a curve to home base, studder through words and skipping phrases, having people anxious and waiting, to be portrayed as "The Realist Poet' is a honor, something great and profound, like the love of my hevenly father, as my pen to this publisher, runs out of ink, i speak.... another piece of work given by my pen top at the top im going for a TEN OUT OF TEN!