This Pen Belongs

This pen belongs to me. I write with it: telling songs about my mother and singing stories about my father, revealing what's happened to me. I cry blood through its veins, cut, bruise or heal in its name. I laugh out loud, cry, dance, even tell lies.

Because of my pen I am never alone -- even when I want to be. I'll ignore it at time because I am afraid of what I might say; I cry when I say it, but I find my way.

I've fought my way through jungles, stopped and started wars, cut and healed lovers, left situations dead on the floor. I've made love over and over again, non-stoppable with my writing pen.

This is my pen, like a trumpet inside of me; I blow my way out -- almost free. And because of my instrument in the lowest valley I'll never be alone, no sacrifice will be mooted, my family will always live on.

My search now is to find my pen a home.