Free Verse Style

If this pen could talk it would of my soul.
The ink the blood that pours on the page need not say a word,
     just write it.
It need not feel but just bleed, as if the inkwell could never go dry.
But why would it?
There is too much to say.
Nay, too much to write.

There must be some secret romance between ballpoint and paper
     because as soon as they touch sparks fly.
As soon as the ink begins to bleed the paper like a vein carries,
     carries it to the heart.
And the hope is that it carries it to yours.
The product is that each word being written is the prolongation of my love.
If I live to write poetry then I am the one birthed from their serendipitous fortune.

Once the words have been written, it is in stone.
Words can be struck, changed and omitted,
     but it is held true that it once existed.
It may not now but none can say it never did.
Whether tis good or bad, who can say?
Man?
But m poetry is not for man,
     it is for the muse and for the universe.
And the universe is non exclusive,
The universe is a cold dark place where things explode and implode;
     Where gasses gather in large pockets and life in small,
     where greens and blues and reds are confined behind borders of perception.
But the blackness of the void reigns and blankets even light.
Even still, it is accepting of the words no matter their variation,
     no matter their intention because poetry is the essence of creation.
The void is a crucible for creation as well as destruction,
      as these words have the power to uplift a heart and tear it down.

But forget about the universe,
     forget it's ears and open arms,
     it's gnarled fangs and cold grasp.
This is for you and you should be proud.
I was born to create, and thus my undertaking of the Tao.