He writes with a felt-tipped pen

He writes, he writes with a felt-tipped pen
I could watch him all day long.

Long, black characters dancing on the pages
Like haughty earls’ wives from the Middle Ages
Looping ‘g’s and curving ‘c’s
Other worldly grace, times of bourbon and monocle and ‘thee’s

His brow is furrowed, his lips taut
In motion now, the wheels of thought
His eyes roam around, distracted
As if waiting for inspiration to see him and be attracted

An idea strikes him suddenly, he smiles to himself
I sigh as those lips widen, no longer in control of myself
His felt tip pen touches the paper, furiously running over it
Left to right and down again, as if the pen is having a fit

He stops soon, as if sensing my presence
I am in a quandary; both my desires do not lessen
I want him to keep on writing, forever
Yet a part of me wants him to find out about my secret endeavour

He goes back to his writing with an irritated air about him
He looks so adorable irritated, I make another noise, on a whim
He fails to notice, this time again
And he keeps writing with that felt-tipped pen.

He writes, he writes with a felt-tipped pen
I could watch him all day long.

His words paint pictures in my head
Take me away to different worlds, untold; unsaid
He puts his soul to the pen, pen to that paper,
And rescues me from my existence bound within a few acres

There is magic in his prose and love in his poetry
The power of wonderment, the high of ecstasy
He sits in one place and travels the world
His hopes and desires unfurled

He writes, he writes with a felt-tipped pen
I could watch him all day long.

 

For Yeah Write.

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