Why I Write: The Magic of the Pen

The day had been a hurricane,

The test was a tornado.

And then I came to lunch to find –

Some leftover potato.

The day droned on, the clock ticked by,

Till finally the bell,

Slammed down an end to that fine day,

It really had been swell.

I could have guessed that on my way,

Things would not go so smooth.

A traffic jam, to my chagrin –

The car would barely move.

Finally, at long, long last,

I pulled up to my home.

Yet when I walked up to my door –

“Oh, no! It’s locked,” I moaned.

You see, they all had trekked on out,

To cheer on for our team.

They forgot all about me, went on without me,

Well, how rude that did seem!

I found a bench near my front lawn,

And thought about my day.

What a mighty drawn out drag it had been – 

Not a thing had gone my way.

I sobbed and moaned for my poor fate,

Then glanced down at my bag.

My eye caught a glint of something there,

My notebook used for math.

Twas pink and sparkled in the sun,

And I began to open,

Up to the back, where it was blank –

Clean, crisp, pure as a token.

And on a whim, I grabbed a pen,

And I began to write.

I wrote and wrote and wrote some more,

The page no longer white.

The words flowed freely; with each phrase,

I felt my heart grow lighter.

The therapy was in the pen,

The paper, an igniter.

So why I write? It’s plain to see.

The pen great power holds.

To package feeling into words –

Great magic to behold.