I am an open book;

Each page densely packed,

Each page completely filled.

Yet each page empty to the hand and pen.

The pen caresses the paper,

Moves to form letters that the pages already knew,

Moves to form what the paper had chosen,

Yet the ink shines only when the pen has writ.

Does the pen decide its letters or does it simply comply?

As the pen hears the spine crack it trembles, lifts itself.

And as the fingers seize the cover,

The pages sigh in relief and mock the hand in unison.

The empty filled pages roar their victory.

Nay! You open the book, lower the pen and write over those pages.

For the pen must always win.

As the pen does not know what the next page may hold.