Sometimes I write about sadness
Though it doesn’t mean I’m sad
At times I write about happiness
But it doesn’t necessarily mean I’m glad.
And then I write about heart aches
Of how the heart can bleed
It’s not entirely my own
I just let my pen lead.
And so the emotions pour
While I continue to write along.
A pen, a pen, oh! I searched for a pen!
But I found none
Not one that worked at all.
I needed to write it down
Needed to write again
But how could I when no pen was in sight?
The paper lay waiting
Hoping I could find a pen, so I may write on it.
When was the last ti!e you wrote a letter?
To ask anything, like if someone was feeling better.
Can you still recall the last letter you wrote?
What good is a pen without a paper?
Much like a lover and a hater
They both need each other
And in some ways must come together
What is a poet without a poem?
No reason to rhyme at all
None at all
A pen, a pen!
I am just a pen.
Blame me not for what has been written
For I follow only the writer.
I only put to writing
They never are my own.
They may put a smile,
They may break hearts.
But if I were to choose what’s to be written.
I would write of songs of joy
Never of sorrow or hurt.
I would write of comfort
Of the beauty of the world!
I would share wisdom
And words to encourage
I hold the key
to imagination, a whirl wind of non-existent things
I move from one end of the world
and appear at the other side
I hold the key
pen and paper on hand
I open the doorway
make way for imagination!
the pen and the paper
like coffee and pie
are great when they’re together
just like you and I
when the ink turns to words
it’s such a symphony
it often over powers me
young was I when I first met you
looking at it now
I see an excellent view
I’m in love with writing
and I’m sure it feels the same
So I’ll continue this affair,
this fun little game
shower me down the warmth of coffee
fill up my empty mind so I may write the words I wish to
appear on paper, still clean and blank
the title has been made but still the contents are lost
somehow I need to find them and get them all together
the mug is filled with the liquid that keeps me warm
yet it’s empty with the words I wish to share
I rack my brain to shake loose whatever creativity is left
I’m distracted from my surroundings so I let the music fill my ears
Ideas come slow, I wish they would flood and drown me
but somehow it’s barren as the desert
third coffee already and not half way through
seems my pen is stuck in limbo
I have to make it work
let me lie wide awake in daydream
maybe the poem will create itself for me
my pen does not know how to write.
it keeps spelling words wrongly, ugh….I meant incorrectly
and has a bad taste for grammar, (see what I mean?)
it does not write when I want to,
it just stares blankly at the paper.
“Write something, come on, write something”, I keep teling (telling) it
but no matter what I do, it won’t budge.
and when it finally wants to write,
it…blah bla blobs…writes nonsense, as what you’ve just seen
my pen is crazy, I think it’s possessed
it’s supposed to ooze with idea, yet it’s the reason why I’m having a writer’s block
I have a lot of ideas, but my pen just won’t right….hmmmm, write
I’m not sure if you can call this a poem
I’ll write better once my pen functions properly