The utensils play an aspect of our world 
Causing our imagination to do everything but stay.
It goes out of our control and our world starts to roll away
Our head starts bumping then the pencil becomes the instrument we must play

Play the rhymes our hearts hum
As if it is mimicking the assembly as the priest reads the psalm
And so we listen to our self as it grows cold and numb 

The assembly is quiet on the days the birds sing 
The world claims the birds are chirping
When these birds are delivering world news from the things they were observing 
Trust me, that news is not exciting

But no one knows they were spying
No one knows they levitated her burden
As she tries to hide them in a notebook and seal it with a pencil
While he forsakes it all in a gang
And so the birds followed them to a place where all trouble is encoded within every word that is written 
A place that is hard....but, somehow, they always manage to get pushed in

We live life in the notebook.
The paper being our world and the pencil our proclamation phone
Sending messages through our tone
But you could never truly understand what we go through, even if you were our clone
Because we at times attract companies but they fail to change the fact that we're alone.

II
And so he picks up his pen.
He didn't know what to write but he still begin
His world started to spin
As his imagination breaks its chain.
He cries with tears becoming the ink as he writes down every action the world viewed as a sin
But not once did he feel his words to be in vain
Except for the constant moments where he was forced to remember his story
He then took a second to think, wondering whether his actions were folly
He told himself they weren't
But if they weren't, where is his glory?

But at times, it’s not just because he wants to write about life's poisonous bite
He does it because writing takes away his burdens and loosen him when the boundaries are tight.
And so he picks up the pen to write
The battle made him weak, but the pen was his might
For within the paper was his strength to fight
Or even his ability to find the beauty in the sky at night
His day starts when the stars illuminate the lonely park with their light
The freedom he felt, the marvel in this great sight

She refuses to touch the pen
Even though an army of ink'd utensils face her.
Lately, life hasn't had any control,
So she sought control over her living
As she reaches for the pencil 
Knowing that this is her chance
To escape the devil's dance

With the pink terminator located on the pencil's terminal
Her "mistakes" were able to be erased
But mind you, she never wanted her acts to be replaced
Don't blame her for having the mind of a dreamer 
As her soul goes to the world's endings
Reckless, society would assume of her
But the girl that takes comfort in the words she sings is only guilty of sitting alone in the dark room
As she lets her spirit swiftly travel through the pencil like dust pushed by a broom

As soon as the graphite tattoos the paper,
Her emotions start to unfold into responses to the many critics she received on the daily
Though she thinks she was alone as she cried,
Her worries soon died
Upon hearing the songs of the birds.