Wicked Pen Poem by Saint Cynosure

My pen in all its wickedness,
drives me to these words.
Bleeding out the letters read,
with only eyes their heard.
Speaking of such horrors,
and evil twist of fate.
Punishment note borrowed,
but when re-payed too late.
Twisting in the hand,
curving out the letters.
A sharpened pencil understand,
could not do sentence better.
The wicked evil that is my pen,
controls my every thought.
And tells me what to write of story,
and dirty deeds of wrought.
If not just by this wicked pen,
no poet I would be.
And not one word you'd ever read,
from my wicked pen and me.