The pen that hoards ten thousand words,

 seeks only guiding hand

To spill it’s blood on virgin page,

 like entrails in the sand

For thus the toil, at authors whim,

drives quill to strive for gain

That readers eye, or listening heart,

might understand the pain

The arteries of heartsblood, 

splashed upon those whitened fields

Bear wounds and scars of battles fought,

where wiser heart would yield

No truce sought, nor quarter begged,

the pen unlocks the word

That Wielded in the skilful hand,

cuts cleaner than the sword

For wiser heads and stronger minds,

have yielded to the might

That bursts in fountains from the heart,

 and bleeds with words of light.