Scratching across the thick paper
my modern implement connects me
to all those before me, using stylus
and wax, chalk and slate, quill and parchment.
Not always scribbling down the mundane
articles of life, sometimes the lines formed
special meaning for the slave or the country
or as a place to escape to, in myth and fantasy.
Carefully crafted, of curves and lines, of dots
and crosses, of punctuation and doodles.
Lines to bring a smile; paragraphs to bring grief;
tomes to bring energy to our lives.
We all can write.
We all are poets,
authors and philosophers.
We all are of worthy thoughts.
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