The Pen Speech Poem by Danielle Mari Nidea

Every stroke is blood I shed,
Yet every drop’s still wasted
Upon pale white palms and negative stars –
The galaxies’ centers on either right or left –
And unneeded stains upon Caucasian virgins.
My brothers sometimes vomit their blood.
I also feel sick, yet I cannot…
Because, in spite of all my blabbering,
I am loyal to my master,
The hand which so gracefully
Writes with my blood and spirit
And creates a temporary bond of immortal meaning
While knowing that my basic and meaningless existence
Will only result to my own death
Either by loss of blood, loss of spirit, loss of heart,
Or loss of the most meaningless bond,
Yet the most special to me.
But warm palms comfort me
Because this existence of mine
Which I discriminate so much
Is given meaning by my master’s spirit
And our fragile marriage.
I know that all the blood I shed is worthy.
This verse written by my blood
Is my legacy, my destiny, my will,
My master’s will, my blood, and the fruit of our bond.
What makes it unique is the freedom, a gift
Of how my master allowed me to make my blood
More worthy than ever.