Silent Musings
New,
Eager hands unwrap the object,
Nimble,
Like a shockwave, electricity flowing through its inky veins,
The pen is alive,
Like a beast it roars,
And, eager to please,
It races down the thin blue lines,
Covering the page with its magic,
Fairy dust,
It’s the best type of pen,
And together they can overcome any obstacles,
Thrown together,
Man and pen,
The best type of romance there is,
Every assignment is genius,
Every poem spilled forth from the pens ink-stained bowels,
A* as long as the pen shall live,
And live it shall,
High on its white-page glory,
Folded between clean secure fingers,
Safe for as long as its mouth spits out black.
Boy grows up,
And love blooms elsewhere but the pen,
So suddenly, the pen is no longer for endless nights of studying,
But for girls to clasp close to their hearts,
Eyes shining in anticipation,
For the words they hold dear from their first love,
Once again the pen is exhausted,
Growing old now, and feeble in its attempts,
Slowly its heart patters to a close,
Love letters unsaid,
No more romance printed carefully on crumpled pages,
And thrown, forgotten, the pen is gone.
