• He use to write his love in words,

    That are more beautiful than singing birds,


    His pen use to sing the angel's voice,


    That whoever read his words would rejoice,


    That was use to be,


    I got to see his view of the world crystal clean,


    His world was filled with love,pain,passion,and feeling


    I realized that his words were revealing,


    His wisdom at his age to young,


    This beautiful gift has yet to come,


    The reason he buried the pen that day,

    Was that twisted Siren had caused his pure soul pain,


    She played that musical act,


    Then turned around and stabbed his back,


    Ever since that mournful day,


    I have yet to see the disappearance of gray,


    His soul is to strong to give up,


    He's willing not to give into the pleasure cut,


    Yet that fountain pen has never come till this day,


    Because I'm using it on this blank page.


    I know this is a tool that will help him mend,


    This is a story about his magical pen.