A Pen and Some Old Scrap Paper

A pen and some old scrap paper;
Two of the simplest things,
But to me they mean oh so much,
Like a guitarist and his strings.

The ink placed in each little letter;
The smudges that line the pages,
Express my desire, my passion inside,
Which has been growing through many ages.

It may be splendid; a work of art,
Or maybe not so much.
Yet each poem written down on paper,
Has felt my burning touch.

Each word expressed so profoundly
Has a story each to its own.
And the sentences built, the rhymes I make
Help my real world to be shown.

So there it is, displayed for you
In plain black and white.
What do I do to release my passion?
I simply sit down and write.