If you give me a pen and a book

If you give me a pen and a book, You’d expect me to write about the world and the way that it looks, About the state of the nations, the economy’s decline, But I’d write about the way her smile makes a bad day feel divine. You’d expect me to write about the poor and the rich, About the hands that build empires and the hands that dig ditches, About the men who make laws, then find ways to evade them, And the people who suffer beneath the laws that enslave them. But I’d write about how a world that measures everything by price Could never calculate the worth of looking into her eyes. How the richest man alive could own the treasures of the sea, Yet remain the poorest soul if he had never known what she means to me. You’d expect me to write about the wars that people wage, About the rise and fall of kingdoms, the wisdom of the age, About the kings who conquered lands and built their thrones of stone But I’d write about a kingdom that exists beneath my chest, Where she wears no crown, yet rules without contest. Where there are no soldiers marching, no armies at the gate, Yet one message from her lips can make my whole world wait. I’d write about a queen who never asked to reign, Who never raised a sword, yet conquered me all the same. And unlike all the kings whose kingdoms time has overthrown, She rules a land within me that I’d gladly call her own. If you give me a pen and a book, You’d expect me to write about the stars and what they took From the darkness of the heavens, how they illuminate the night, But I’d write about her eyes and how they make my world feel bright. You’d expect me to write about the oceans and their depths, About the secrets buried where the ancient water rests, But I’d write about the depth of what I feel but rarely show, An ocean in my chest that only she will ever know. If you give me a pen and a book You’d expect me to describe the moon that governs every tide, The mountains standing proudly as the centuries pass by, The stars that burn like candles in the darkness of the sky. But I’d write about her eyes instead of distant galaxies, About the quiet in her presence, about what her nearness does to me. For what use is there in mapping every planet, star, and sphere When I have found a whole universe in the woman standing here? You’d expect me to write about philosophy and thought, About the truths that men have searched for and the wisdom they have sought, About the meaning of existence, what makes a life worthwhile, But I’d write about how she gives meaning to the smallest mile. You’d expect me to write about the passing of our days, How time steals every moment, how the present slips away, But I’d write about the little things I wish time would renew, The conversations, stolen glances, and the moments spent with you. You’d expect me to write about the future I pursue, About the dreams I’m working for, the things I hope to do, But somewhere in those dreams of mine, beyond the wealth and fame, I’d leave a little room for her, a home to share our name. You’d expect me to write about the things that make men strong, About the battles that they fight, the places they belong, But I’d write about the courage it takes to let someone inside, To give another person the heart you’ve spent your life trying to hide. You’d expect me to write about the poets and their art, About the verses they composed from the ruins of a heart, But I’d write about a love so deep that language feels too small, Where even all the words I know can’t quite express it all. And if you asked me why her, when the world has so much more, Why I’d fill a thousand pages with what others might ignore, I’d tell you that the world is beautiful, its wonders ever new, But somehow, every beautiful thing reminds me of her, too. A sunset makes me wonder if she’s seen that shade of gold, A song becomes a memory of stories yet untold. The stars become a thousand words I wish that she could hear, And every lovely place becomes a place I’d want her near. The world gives me its stories, Its sorrows and its art, Its music and its mysteries, Its science and its stars. But somewhere in the middle of the knowledge I pursue, I find myself collecting little things That I can bring to you. A thought I wish to tell you A joke you’d understand, A dream I wish to show you A future hand in hand. A thousand little fragments Of the life I wander through, All becoming little letters In a language meant for you. So give me all the world’s great questions, every subject, every view, Give me all the books of knowledge, all the things I never knew. Give me every story worth a thousand pens to write And somehow, I’ll still write about her Until the ink runs dry.