Poetry Resides in the Eye of the Ink?

my
writing pours from
a good fountain pen, yet
is stymied by ballpoint sludge

glorified pages drip
with brilliance
joyful clarity fills
wanton souls

impacted reality by ink or
the walls created
fathomable in height
excuses
fostering procrastination
lack of inspiration

Magic
manufactured inside
the pen's barrel?

not for this one