The pen is not the poet,
but the poet cannot be without the pen;
the poet can have all the inspiration and insight in the universe,
but without the means and the implements to express their creativity
their words know not where they are, nor when.

The pen with which a poet writes their poetry
is one of the most powerful agents
and perpetuators of expression ever invented;
with a pen at their fingertips a poet can wield words of power
and of silent articulation the cogency of which is unprecedented.

In the hands of an artist,
a pen is like a magicians magic wand, or the sceptre of an emperor, or a king-
in the hands of someone who can understand the language of order
within an alphabet of chaos
a pen can bring paper and ink to life and make them sing.

There is something wonderfully visceral to a writer
about actually writing the literal interpretation of their imaginings;
there is something incredibly profound about the weight of a pen in your hand,
and the balance and dexterousness that you have to bring.

There is a connection that develops over time
between a writer and his pen that may perplex the thoughts of an onlooker-
sometimes that connection is the only outlet a writer has
for his potent, poetic, imagination pressure cooker.

In the 21st Century you can write on a tablet, a phone, a computer,
on a blog, a wall, or in a good old-fashioned notepad, or a book, with a pen-
I have written poetry in every way, everywhere,
and without question or hesitation a pen and piece of paper
will forever be the source of inception of every one of my poems
again and again.

Even though I get a rush from writing poetry
with the elegance, refinement, and style of ink and pen,
I still keep in my mind and never forget
that I am the poet,
and that: le stylo ne fait pas le poete.