I shed my past without regret, slipping through grass without a step.

I dance on pages, bright and loud, A neon whisper, bold and proud. I never write, yet mark the way, Pointing out what must stay. I kiss the lines you shouldn’t miss, With glowing strokes of scholarly bliss. Not quite a pen, not quite a writer, What tool am I, that shines much brighter

Bow to me, I’ll scream a key, The devils bet: a soul, for me. I sit on shoulders, held by neck. Not vile as Lin, but the same respect.

What a pawn usually turns itself into when it gets to the other side of the chess board.

I come in many forms But my main rule remains true: With my bubbles and my pictures I’ll tell a story for you