Sunday, June 05, 2005

my pen

This pen has been so good to me:
soft grip warming my fingertips.
Its smooth ink painting my poems,
adding my numbers.
You have stayed with me, but
no longer,
for your ink has run dry,
and will paint no more.
You are just a shell,
and I must replace you;
this new pen is awkward!
My W's just don't look right,
and I feel forced.
Your body still feels warm,
but I know you are empty.

7 comments:

Shubhodeep said...

NICE, MELLOW POEM...QUAINT, YET APPEALING!

transience said...

there's a lot to be read between the lines there.

NicoleBraganza said...

yes, there is indeed so much that is said without being said here.

TwistedNoggin said...

that is awesome. So much said and unsaid, indeed.

. : A : . said...

Agree with transience, there is a lot to be read in between the lines in this one!

Anonymous Poet said...

Ode to a pen! . . . that's more personal than a grecian urn. "Your body still feels warm, but I know you are empty." Great line. I can feel the pen in my hand, lighter than when I puleld it out of the box.

Anonymous said...

What amazing creative thought..The rrelation of a poet with his pen and the way he feels so heavy as he has to make a choice to let go of his empty pen

iamnasra