Ручка и бумага

At times the pen does not even want to touch the paper

Its golden nib eerie, like a hermit fearing the planet's caper.

But words should make a pilgrimage, like holy wafer,

To enhance minds and spirit, a divine caterer.

Without any delivery or constant poise,

Words fly aimless, a buzzing noise.

Like dust in the wind, scattered and loose,

Without any purpose, they're of very little use.

I spark my hand with forced intention, a concrete flare,

Non-willing fingers moving, to make my thoughts appear.

A constructed bridge of symbol I strive to engineer,

Containing the abyss to the ideas once clear.

Sounds rumble, then begin to flow,

A ripple at first, then a very constant grow.

Meaning forms like crystalline in a solution,

Each union a move towards a resolution.

Without any order to portend to,

Context wanders, not sure what there is to do.

How must I shape these strokes,

Into fragments of purpose, that fire stokes?

In playful subterfuge of focus, I tap into each phrase,

Molding hidden secrets from within the mind's eye maze.

At times the flow is arduous, the path still unclear,

I'll continue on until my wisdom rings revere.

For in the end, it's not just something on a page,

It's a whole piece of my soul being set free from long-overdue cage.

Through doubts and oddities, something useful can immerge,

As paper and pen in melodic harmony emerge.