The Pen That Writes Itself by Automatic Writing

The Pen That Writes Itself by Automatic Writing

The candle burns low, my hands are still,

The room is quiet, the clock unmoved,

The page before me white and wide,

As if it waits for something more.

A shiver runs across my skin,

The pen begins to hum with thought,

It moves without my bidding hand,

As though another mind now speaks.

The words emerge, unsure, alive,

Each one a breath I did not take,

Each line a whisper not my own,

Yet somehow part of who I am.

They write of places I have not seen,

Of hearts I’ve never met or known,

They speak of loss, of joy, of time,

Of love that never fades away.

When I stop, the pen grows cold,

And silence folds around the page,

The ink still wet, the air still charged,

The presence fades but leaves its mark.

I read the lines and see myself,

Not fully me, yet somehow close,

The voice that spoke through hand and word,

Still lingers softly in my mind.