Pen Quotes - Page 2

then things got even stranger.Mr. Brunner, who'd been out in front of the museum a minute before, wheeled his chair into the doorway of the gallery, holding a pen in his hand. "What ho, Percy!" he shouted, and tossed the pen through the air.Mrs. Dodds lunged at me.With a yelp, I dodged and felt talons slash the air next to my ear. I snatched the ballpoint pen out of the air, but when it hit my hand, it wasn't a pen anymore. It was a sword-Mr. Brunner's bronze sword, which he always used on tourement day.Mrs. Dodds spun toward me with a murderous look in her eyes.My knees were jelly. My hands were shaking so bad I almost dropped the sword.She snarled, "Die, honey!"And she flew straight at me.Absolute terror ran through my body. I did the only thing that came naturally:I swung the sword.The metal blade hit her shoulder and passed through her body as if she were made made of water. Hisss!Mrs. Dodds was a sand castle in a power fan. She exploded into yellow powder, vaporized on the spot, leaving nothing but the smell of sulfur and a dying screech and a chill of evil in the air, as if those two glowing red eyes were still watching me.

Tickle my heart with your pen. Write me for all to read. Bind our love inside a book. Make me, your poetry.

There is no revelation in my words. I am merely stating what others have forgotten to write down.

A poetess is not as selfishas you assume.After months of agonising over her marriage of words—the bride—and spaces—the groom,she knows that as soonas she has penned the poem,it’s yours to consume.So, without giving it a think,she blows on the inkand the letters fly awaylike dandelions on a windy day,landing on hands and lips, on hearts and hips.But more often than not,you can easily spotthem trodden and forgotten,becoming sodden and rotten.Yet, she will continue to makewhat’s others to takebecause selfishness is not the mark of a poetess.

We have the power of the pen to write the next chapter, and the privilege to author the page in whatever fashion we choose. Yet, seldom do we understand the power of the pen and the privilege of the page.

If everyone took his pen and wrote just anything that came on his mind, we would greatly help researchers to understand how our minds work

Writing is a disease of the mind, which is expressed through a pen.

Like a warrior in the battlefield, a writer must endeavour to use his pen to stamp the paper with his identity.

They took my booksbecause my message was love.They took my penbecause my words were love.Then they took my voicebecause my song was love.Soon they’ll take myselfso nothing remains.But they don’t know that when I'm gonemy love will stay.

When he got a story urge, there was nothing to do but grab a pen and write. Otherwise it was too much like getting a hard-on and not jerking off.

Let your heart dance with pen and paperNow fill the paper with dancing letters.

The hand of God is wonderfully evident at those times when He pens stories whose lines we ourselves are far too fearful to pen or whose imaginations are far too limited to envision. And I would unashamedly suggest that the Christmas story is that very story.

The road from ‘here’ to ‘there’ is a map yet to be written with the pen I hold in my hand.

A torpid heart in agony needs a pen to bleed

The paper is my savior, the pen my blood, to words that shed my world.

Never let anyone use your toothbrush or your pen. -Author Wllm Worth

the intensityin your eyesburns my penas i write.

As I pen these words to leave a lasting record, I wonder myself where it all began.