The Pen is mightier. . .
Upon my desk lays an instrument of untold potential. The pen, with it dull blue casing, waits idly by for a hand to steer it. Inside, blood as blue as a king’s grows cold. Without aid, it is nothing. In the right hands, it is everything. Its blood can order the start of wars. Its blood can represent any amount of money. Its blood holds the power to communicate, through words, through numbers, or even through drawings. Yet, like the shell of an egg, it is fragile. Stepped on, sat on, crushed, snapped or bent, a pen can be broken in many ways. All that protects its vital blood is a thin case of plastic. Yet a pen may just run out of life. Much like a man, after years of use and hard work, it is drained of all it has.
Holding its ink steady is the tip of its pen. Sheltering it, the tip’s only purpose is to protect what’s inside. At the end of the pen resides a small heart. This heart pumps the blood and makes it flow. When boredom comes, the heart responds with a barrage of clicks. These clicks erupt in a symphony of sound, like the patter of rain on a metal roof. The heart is there only to help the blood flow, yet humans have found so many more uses for it.
Fastened to the pen is an arm of sorts. The arm flashily displays its name, as if it wanted the whole world to know what it wanted to be called. The arm grabs firmly onto that it is given. A pocket, a collar, a backpack, it does not matter. It grabs on all the same and it holds on. Only by prying off the arm will it let go.
Together the mismatch of parts work in unison to create a perfect machine, a machine that hold limitless power.