Life of
the Pen
The pen is as black as the night,
Yet it is utilized when we are mourning,
The feel of the cool plastic touching the hand,
Leaves no emotions soaring,
The grip acts like a depressed pillow,
Encasing the index and thumb,
As a cry bed for the middle finger,
In case it becomes numb.
It can cling on to a pocket,
Like an ex-girlfriend from a week ago,
Its tip is razor sharp,
She will deliver the next blow,
The spring lasts through any season,
And collapses when it is pushed too hard,
The thought of it breaking,
Leaves a similar timeless scar.
The pen is the HDMI cable,
From the hand to the brain,
Using it is a necessity,
To ensure no angry thoughts remain.
When the ink runs out,
It is time to bode farewell,
To the pen that has been with you through your troubles,
It is now peacefully dead.
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