Well I parade words
Suiting ones i couldnt find.
Why now? Let me find!
My pen is fade and die of ink.
Here I stood,
Mourning my fainted pen.
Then suddenly, heads bent, wrist twist.
Too full of ink; my pen writes, it does speak.
“Grab me well, for I’ll drift round wordy corners”
Thus it left my heart to awe,
As my lips poured saltless waters,
now I am, left guilty of words.