The Poet's Pen

The pen drips Honey, Blood, Tears, Whatever I want it to. I can transport you To heaven, Hell, Or purgatory, If I wish it. I can make you sick, Then medicate your ills With my droplets like pills. I dribble my ink Into your heart So I can write upon it Whatever I like. My poetry is the words I tattoo on your eyes. I have phrases and rhymes Etched upon mine, First from Plath— When I turned sixteen Her poems caused anguish, Laughter, Screams. It was fall, My high school Was covered in leaves A substitute Gave me a book Of hers And said: read. What I saw Stained me Forever. Through her ink, I felt her pain. What pen did she use? I wondered that often. How it well it dripped Honey, Blood, Tears. Whatever she wanted it to. But now, I know it: The pen she used Was The Poet’s.