A most read for all writers.

Awaken by the dazzling breeze of the ocean, flushing through my unlock windows; the waves claps as the early morning surfers beat their way through it. The sun once again sets at a thirty-degree angle to my ocean view. I, a poet, seating on my writing chair, ready to inscribe the beauty of nature, picks up my pen, accompanied with the sweet aroma of coffee. Today I write, praising the mysterious creatures of nature far beyond our comprehension, jotting down each move made by the leaves, caused from the whispering breeze. So much to be writing, only few to write, just one pen to be used. The pen, it tells what the mouth is afraid to speak, in bravery, it writes to condemns the master and praise the slave, it preserves history for generations to come.

By God’s given ink, our freedom to write we express. In war or trouble times, we speak not by spoken words, for in then, our freedoms are compromised. With the fullness’ of our ink and the readiness of our pen, we the writer’s, unknown or known, in secret or open, under the unity of one pen, inscribes to the fullest, the recorded history of our time.

The Pen, sharper than a two-edge sword, although with only one edge, cuts threw our speechless mouths. A poet or a novelist, fiction or fact, these written words are preserved not only to accredit the authors but to also give geographical fact of the period we lived or living in. With the short length of the pen, it writes words longer than the length of the fallen rain, all on one given day.

For centuries, the writer’s pen continues to write, in theories and faith, from the creation of the universe to the ideology of evolution. Through these years, many writers came and gone, famous and forgotten, but through it all, the preservation, and the keeper of our unspoken words: The Writer’s Pen. It continues to be passed on from one writer to another and on this day, as I sit in my writing chair, I hold the writers pen, ready to fulfill its mission; preserve history.