If I am a pen without a page
What am I to do but scrawl
In streams and streaks
Of Dripping ink on
Every unclaimed wall
If I am a needle with an eye
Unable to hold thread
Make simple Stable
sutures sable
From fallen locks instead
If I am a pen without a well
Of pigment, ink, or stain,
Why not instead
The crimson red
That runs within my veins
If I am a pen without a nib,
To carve unto blank spaces
What letters flood
Within my blood
Out From a heart that races
If I am a pen with neither hand
To hold it, nor a sheath,
What shall I clasp
Or barely grasp
It with but cracking teeth
If I am a pen that can not write
That can not draw or chisel
Into any surface
Am I worthless
Because I can do little
If I am a pen that fails,
That brings about exhausted wails
As shivering hands grow pale
Desperately digging down with nails
To press the slightest indentation
Into some representation
Of the words that fill my mind
That, I fear if they spill, will die
Leaving me to mourn worlds that
will have just barely been
Without the chance to come to life
By fault of a broken pen
YOU ARE READING
painted poet
PoetryWhat memories give me grief or gratitude, Tempts my firey attitude, comes to my mind In the wee hours of night Or of the mornings first blinking light, The second edition to my collection of fragments, pulled together like bits of stained glass, ...
