Ink Pens

The Pen

I’m standing in the corner.

With walls of green and white.

Books surround me, but their worlds could never be mine.

They don’t understand time and how precious it may seem.

Its like ink.

Once used it can never be resurfaced.

Its served its one true purpose.

But of what purpose to me has ink served?

Its held me together with all its words.

If ink should never flow, then I shall be gone.

Back to the depths of hell.

To be by myself.

And time will carry on as it did before.

As I turn to dust for ever more.

For without the ink that flows from my pen,

I’m nothing more than what they say I’ve always been.

“I’m useless” said dad.

So he threw me away.

And mom sugar coats so everything seems happy and gay.

But inside I’m gray.

And depression reigns.

Except on paper, where words are king.

When words can shape me into anything.

Who I am and who I will always be,

Is determined by the ink in the pen.

My true purpose is defined by how I write from within.