A wise man once said
"A pen is a harpoon"

Now mine is leaking
Will it run out soon?

As it lays there
It writes out of thin air

It releases pressure
That I didn't know was there

He called it a weapon
"Forged in darkness"

But it's sorting me out
Cleaning up my mess

Is this a curse?
Is it wrong to have this

As a writer
It fulfills my wish

I don't need a genie
No need for a lamp

More reliable than a djinn
Those lying scamps

I can create without magic
It's still full of heart

I don't feel the need
To take myself apart

However you write
For however long, and how fast

It matters not
Judgement is the past

Make what you wish
Do what works

But pens are harpoons
And words can hurt

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Can't sleep so i'm writing all the time.

I write everything I post on the spot, almost none of my blogs are pre-planned (except "The Air is Poison", thought up some metaphors and couldn't wait, too scared to forget, so I wrote them down)

Am I writing too much...? Or do you like the constant content from me?