My Sword, My Instrument, My Brush Poem by Issam Aladdin

The moment it is moved is like a miracle,

The second it touches the paper is pure magic.

The ink leaks out onto the page without direction,

The lines sweep smooth over and over,

In a fashion always in style, always unique.

The pen takes on a mind of its own,

It feels like there is no thought, only action.

Swift black lines glide across the page as fine as an ice dancer’s skate,

So natural, so innate.

To be connected with the pen and the paper and the ink as one universal being,

No way to stop it; just let the freedom run harder than an untamed stallion,

Leaping over the boundaries that guard our educated minds,

Where nothing is forbidden, nothing is controversial

The light beams from the page and casts a glow over all that is around it.

It is not truly me who is inking the page, it is my soul,

It knows where the dots and crosses should lie.

The liquid runs from the tip of the pen with such rapid force,

The pure ecstasy of words running wild and free,

Filled with erudite purity.

And when the bond is broken between easel and instrument,

As the paint rests onto the canvas,

Step back and see that the words splayed upon the page,

Have painted a landscape for all to read.