The pen I weild in my hand is my only friend. When human minds fail to reciprocate my darkness, he kisses my hand till secrets unveil themselves only to drown in his soft embrace. As the black liquid oozes from its faithful end I sit back & watch the wonders of my thoughts indulging in a dalliance with the previously blank page. It’s like watching a timid sinner give in to all that’s good in this world. I believe truth to be our only saviour. My pen births newer parts of my soul each day. Parts that I have been watering for ages when all I ever needed was a drop of ink. Flowers don’t grow inside me, ravenous pages do and I need to feed them. I do.