Protestants

I can light a bulb,
From the friction created,
By the eraser rubbed against the pages,
For a thousand times or more.
Imagination chopped off,
Like a pencil shaved,
In the process of sharpening,
Because perfection is what's craved.
The pen trys to portray,
What the mind screams
But the ink calligraphs,
Only what's want to be seen.
Feelings protest,
In the court of the heart,
Asking for enhancement
In the words and the art..