the intensityin your eyesburns my penas i write.

I am obnoxious to each carping tongue/ Who says my hand a needle better fits./ A poet's pen all scorn I should thus wrong/ For such despite they cast on female wits;/ If what I do prove well, it won't advance,/ They'll say it's stolen, or else, it was by chance.

You made a writer keep faith in his pen.

Muses are fickle, and many a writer, peering into the voice, has escaped paralysis by ascribing the creative responsibility to a talisman: a lucky charm, a brand of paper, but most often a writing instrument. Am I writing well? Thank my pen. Am I writing badly? Don't blame me blame my pen. By such displacements does the fearful imagination defend itself.

Pen-bereavement is a serious matter.

She looked at her hand: Just some hand, holding a cheap pen. Some girls’ hand. She had nothing to do with that hand. Let that hand do whatever it wanted to.

And speaking of this wonderful machine:[840] I’m puzzled by the difference between, the kind Which goes on solely in the poet’s mind,A testing of performing words, while he,The other kind, much more decorous, whenHe’s in his study writing with a pen. In method B the hand supports the thought,The abstract battle is concretely fought.The pen stops in mid-air, then swoops to bar[850] A canceled sunset or restore a star,And thus it physically guides the phraseToward faint daylight through the inky maze. is agony! The brainIs soon enclosed in a steel cap of pain.A muse in overalls directs the drill Which grinds and which no effort of the willCan interrupt, while the automatonIs taking off what he has just put on Or walking briskly to the corner store [860] To buy the paper he has read before.

I mostly want to remind her of the recipes of healing, and give her my own made-on-the spot remedy for the easing of her pain. I tell her, “Get a pen. Stop crying so you can write this down and start working on it tonight.” My remedy is long. But the last item on the list says: “When you wake up and find yourself living someplace where there is nobody you love and trust, no community, it is time to leave town – to pack up and go (you can even go tonight). And where you need to go is any place where there are arms that can hold you, that will not let you go.

Sometimes, when inspiration runs dry, I drink classical music until my words spill out.

If life’s pen passion is ink!

Poetry is jealous of you tonight, for as soon as I come to pen a few words, your perfume attacks me in the most civilised manner and I forget myself. I forget the poem. I forget the ...

What would behoove me to instantly declare God not to be God unless He followed my script in some tediously exacting manner? I must confess that I am less likely to believe that it’s a matter of some narcissistic demand that I freely pen my own script. Rather, I think it’s fear that I’m too inadequate to follow God’s.

The hand of God is wonderfully evident at those times when He pens stories whose lines we ourselves are far too fearful to pen or whose imaginations are far too limited to envision. And I would unashamedly suggest that the Christmas story is that very story.

Tickle my heart with your pen. Write me for all to read. Bind our love inside a book. Make me your poetry.

I was mistaken when I said you live in my heart. How absurd I was when you live in my fingertips so that everything I touch is you. How foolish I was when you live in my toes so that everywhere I go there's you. How senseless of me to say you live in my heart when you breathe in my lungs, walk on my mind, and drink in my mouth. I came to pen another poem for you, but even every unwritten poem is you.

I write because the security of your love allows me to develop my craft without concerning myself with trivialities — as if your love could be any more complete. But I write, in the first place,because of you, my muse. I write for your green eyes to glance at my humble words and for the pleasure of hearing you utter them.

I came to pen another poem for you, but even every unwritten poem is you.

When people starts to enjoy a writer's pen, he becomes a legend even if his stories are neither long nor publicly surrounded by expectations.

Decisions are the privilege we’ve been granted to have a hand in penning the script of our lives. And in the writing, the question is not the availability of the paper or the pen. The question is the wisdom to use them rightly.

It is a dangerous thing to substitute reading or writing for living. Live first, then write.

There is no revelation in my words. I am merely stating what others have forgotten to write down.

I am going to build a fortress of books.Will you come inside and live with me?

They took my booksbecause my message was love.They took my penbecause my words were love.Then they took my voicebecause my song was love.Soon they’ll take myselfso nothing remains.But they don’t know that when I'm gonemy love will stay.

I haven’t written you a poem in years it seems.How can it be my faultwhen the words to describe you have not yet been created?When the alphabet lacks the very letters?How can it be my fault when your loveliness only growsby the time I reach for pen and paper?Tell me how I am at faultwhen I am only a beginner in poemsand you are exquisite poetry?To write you in words is to put a veil upon you.Why must I writewhen I can kiss you instead?

All I need to dois place my pen against paperand your lovewrites for me.

A poetess is not as selfishas you assume.After months of agonising over her marriage of words—the bride—and spaces—the groom,she knows that as soonas she has penned the poem,it’s yours to consume.So, without giving it a think,she blows on the inkand the letters fly awaylike dandelions on a windy day,landing on hands and lips, on hearts and hips.But more often than not,you can easily spotthem trodden and forgotten,becoming sodden and rotten.Yet, she will continue to makewhat’s others to takebecause selfishness is not the mark of a poetess.

A torpid heart in agony needs a pen to bleed

Tickle my heart with your pen. Write me for all to read. Bind our love inside a book. Make me, your poetry.

If everyone took his pen and wrote just anything that came on his mind, we would greatly help researchers to understand how our minds work

Writing is a disease of the mind, which is expressed through a pen.

When that little clock on my wall says “Olaotan! Olaotan!! Olaotan!!! It’s half past time to write”, I only have three things at my disposal: A pen, A piece of paper, and a crowded mind.

Power in society is achieved through control of the purse, pen, and politics.

The paper is my savior, the pen my blood, to words that shed my world.

Never let anyone use your toothbrush or your pen. -Author Wllm Worth

I had zero idea of what I was doing.. I honestly had no idea where to start. All I knew was I had something I craved to say.. I wanted to create art that lived on longer than I do. Perseverance and teaching yourself, every day through stress and hard work proves shit really does progress without you realizing. One minute you're an amateur, knowing nothing, not even the basics. The next you can put pen to paper, write a song, and create art in such little time! It's crazy beautiful.

Best friend is like a pen and we're the paper. We'll not complete without their ink

Lack of courage is what makes big dreams to sit in the ink of the paper instead of them running in the shoes of actions. Without courage, you remain a dreamer!

The pen is mightier than the sword as long as it doesn't run out of ink.

The Scribe"Under the wingsOf the feathered Goddess,And in the middleOf the three dancing women,The scribe comes aliveTo reveal mysteries hiddenThrough divine gifts givenThe scribe is drivenOn his sacred missionTo wake upAll the universe'sMen, women andHeavenly children.Under the seven rays of Aten,And from the age of just ten,The scribe comes aliveWith the fertile inkOf his luminous pen.Below the spectacle of the moon,And in the smile of the sun,The scribe is here to show usHow we are all one.

As I pen these words to leave a lasting record, I wonder myself where it all began.

As writers we live life twice, like a cow that eats its food once and then regurgitates it to chew and digest it again. We have a second chance at biting into our experience and examining it. ...This is our life and it's not going to last forever. There isn't time to talk about someday writing that short story or poem or novel. Slow down now, touch what is around you, and out of care and compassion for each moment and detail, put pen to paper and begin to write.

When the lyrical muse sings the creative pen dances.

Some writers aren't writers, they are mere escapees' and refugees' on an exile from the jungle of thoughts.

The road from ‘here’ to ‘there’ is a map yet to be written with the pen I hold in my hand.

And speaking of this wonderful machine:[840] I’m puzzled by the difference b

the caress of each word becoming                 one   with the pagetwisting          beneath the touch of the pen                     forming a trail of permanent kisses                  until they reach me

The greatest book is one written by your pen, but not exactly from your mind.

She held up the pen and gave him a lazy grin. "It's a rose."He came close. "It's a pen." He tried to pluck it from her hand."You are seriously lacking in imagination.

Writing is the light of imagination playing over shadow of thoughts.

The ink in the pen that writes success stories is "FOCUS"...

Bolts work on nuts; pens work on paper. But you must work on yourself. Go, get working!

It is said that if you want to change the world, take pen and write. I want to add that if you want to maintain that change, then be the ruler to rule the pen's lines. True rulers are true leaders; they maintain a change!

The ink in your pen never reshapes your thoughts, you must replace the ink before the ink can be inked properly.

Writers are disguised "sorcerers". Armed with their mighty pens, they cast spells on their readers using words that could pierce right through the heart and soul. If our writings moved you, made you cry, made you think deeper, and sort of changed your perspective about things, then we can say, we had you under our "spell". - Elizabeth Esguerra Castillo's Quotes

The ink of a pen is simply the blood of a heart

I near felt bad he choose to be so evil to me. I am a forgiving woman, but my pen... oh my wicked wicked hormonal she-pen.

A pen is neither good nor bad. It’s what you do with it that makes it a weapon of war or a tool of peace.Likewise, love is neither good nor bad. It’s what you do with it that makes it the ultimate punishment or the greatest reward.

sometimes i am not sure.if i am writing the poemor the poemis writing me.

When I read the ghastly lines of tragedy darkly penned into my life, I turn and notice that the pen in my hand is wet.

We have the power of the pen to write the next chapter, and the privilege to author the page in whatever fashion we choose. Yet, seldom do we understand the power of the pen and the privilege of the page.

You want to be a writer, don't know how or when? Find a quiet place, use a humble pen.

A liar with a pen is a writer

Writing ink is the magic that allows nothing to become something. It catches the fleeting idea and seeks out the glances of those who wish to see. Even a random ink splat will mean something to someone.

If a pen can communicate our thoughts, dreams, and emotions and be the voice of our soul, then ink is the medium that carries the message.

Sometimes ideas flow from my mind in a raging river of stringed sentences; I can scarcely scribble on the page fast enough to keep up with the mental current. Sometimes, however, beavers move in and dam the whole thing up.

Like a warrior in the battlefield, a writer must endeavour to use his pen to stamp the paper with his identity.

My pen beats faster as I write with my heart

Broken heart is flute.i blow into the flute & design walking portrait with empty pen

I used to always read with a pen in my hand, as if the author and I were in a conversation.

Now relax, think positively and begin --- the smile of success awaits you.

Let your heart dance with pen and paperNow fill the paper with dancing letters.

Why write, if this too easy activity of pushing a pen across paper is not given a certain bull-fighting risk and we do not approach dangerous, agile, and two-horned topics?

When he got a story urge, there was nothing to do but grab a pen and write. Otherwise it was too much like getting a hard-on and not jerking off.

Your sensitivity, your tenderness, your eyes make me pick up my pen and write, Mrignayni!

The pen is my true salvation. God is not.

By(e) pen, I've tried my hand at poetry; only to see how boring it is to me. That is, unless I get a chance to destroy each and every piece while doing it as I please.

then things got even stranger.Mr. Brunner, who'd been out in front of the museum a minute before, wheeled his chair into the doorway of the gallery, holding a pen in his hand. "What ho, Percy!" he shouted, and tossed the pen through the air.Mrs. Dodds lunged at me.With a yelp, I dodged and felt talons slash the air next to my ear. I snatched the ballpoint pen out of the air, but when it hit my hand, it wasn't a pen anymore. It was a sword-Mr. Brunner's bronze sword, which he always used on tourement day.Mrs. Dodds spun toward me with a murderous look in her eyes.My knees were jelly. My hands were shaking so bad I almost dropped the sword.She snarled, "Die, honey!"And she flew straight at me.Absolute terror ran through my body. I did the only thing that came naturally:I swung the sword.The metal blade hit her shoulder and passed through her body as if she were made made of water. Hisss!Mrs. Dodds was a sand castle in a power fan. She exploded into yellow powder, vaporized on the spot, leaving nothing but the smell of sulfur and a dying screech and a chill of evil in the air, as if those two glowing red eyes were still watching me.

The pen is mightier than the sword.

If you give me six lines written by the hand of the most honest of men I will find something in them which will hang him.

I finally made eye contact with the boy in the bed. He lay on his side, a tube in his nose and another in his vein. His cheeks were sunken, and his skin was ghostly pale. His hair might have been blond, but it was fading into a gray, making it hard to tell. The only part of this boy that held any life at all were his eyes, which brimmed with tears when he saw me.“Kahlen?”I sat still. These three people all called me by the same name, which sounded sort of like Katlyn and Ellen and made me believe that maybe they actually knew me.“Where did you go? Where have you been? I thought you were dead.” His chest worked overtime, trying to keep up with his mouth, spilling over with words.“Can you get her a pen? Please?” He lifted an arm weakly. It was all bone. “I just need to know.”“A pen?” I asked.Once again his eyes lit up.“You can talk?”I stared at this boy, at how he was overjoyed at one of the most basic things a person could do. “So it would seem.” I smiled.He flopped onto his back, laughing from his gut, and based on Julie’s tears, I was guessing she’d been waiting a long time for that to come back.