This pen begs to be treasured and trusted – to invite in ink-laden camaraderie again. Instantly forced-both-forged moments of twisted bliss and vacuously entrapped with-in a thunderstorm of evaporating happiness.

As a writer writes as only they shan’t ever manage to handle, it will painfully attempt to choose and confuse the brave face of its un-entitled masterpiece, which sits unspeakably ahead of them

And to eventually bring with it: *between the finger and the thumb the squat pen rests – pressed distantly together – a soothing sense of unprompted survival… to this mind-swept page of uproar, outrage and alarming incandescence

A hidden-behind-closed-doors landscape, perhaps, of utter imprisonment for the writer, albeit a thing of utter escapism for the reader – a living, seething stifled relationship of twisted bliss and uninformed merit of suggested understanding shared uniquely between one and a million other people

Of pre-ordained persuasion
Enthused to abuse their master’s craft ’til their minds are sent delicious and daft .

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