My Pen

My pen has dug in deep and it refuses to die.
Its crimson ink desires to portray concealed dark images
Of the outlying past that were once trampled beneath embryonic
Loads of word stipulating the organic rules.
My pen keeps on marking down
Dark patches of his magnificence.
As it ignores the white ones good for the other side of olden times
But I can’t oblige it to put down what it does not crave to.

The hand fails to control the progress of my pen.
It takes its course without heeding suggestion
That would secrete the sticky patches of his lordship
That taint his glorious throne crammed with splendour.
It keeps on writing down
About days gone, money squandered, economic management.
It ignores the development that is seen through a microscope
Which is still part of the history made.
Yet I reserve no right to halt it
Let it write what, when and where its heart desires
For it is a stubborn pen in gentle hands.

My paper crunches itself up and moves into a dancing hearth
When my hand forces my pen to take opposite directions.
History can’t be twisted
To save a few avaricious faces
No! It can’t be suppressed
For every book holds the past.
That is why my paper cries for the truth
And only the truth to be put on it.
Then it will dance and fly across the earth
Informing all and sundry
That whatever it is, his kingship has made history.

As my pen refuses to die,
I picture the truth within the borders of my congested mind
That my grey matter forces it to refuse to dry
So that more people will drink from its ink of truth
As it makes another version of history without dying.
Let the paper fly to America, Europe and back to Africa
Then my pen will never ever refuse to die.
I will crush it in the dark corner so that it may finally sleep
And save the image of the king
After a few slaps of word.
Then my pen will die