As i play with my pen as it begins to write, on this hot white sheet it begins to fight, white verse black but usually the black always win but the definition of this, is that the page never ends, writing for hours and my day goes on by, smooth summer breeze as my mind begins to fly, soul opens widely set free like a cage bird, as my words begin to slur not only to use strong intensive verbs, Yes a man who fears not all but one, the man who shall never raise his hands at his soul, i was born with this talent nor woman or man could make this, i descovered it on my own, check it out how my pen is writing. I never knew a pen could talk saying words you never heard and verbs that can walk, jump right off the page and run through your mind like a track star, setting flames in your eyes as it begins to write more. A pen, yes a pen i said the lead in a pencil would die if it had this task, to write physically for minutes at a time, quote lyrics out my head, got to write them line for line. Damn it must said because the pen jump back in my hand, but i slowly lay it down as this poem comes to an END!