Terrible Pens

This is the land of terrible pens.
Ink dries solid, but paper crumbles;
Lines flow like a dance, but beauty fades.
Slaves to terror breathe in the dust of the enlightened
Only to exhale.

Why else would I prefer pencil?
Here, my words don't last.
Instead, they are revised to fit the shape of ignorance.
But when I find the land that keeps its promises,
I will be heard.