My pen, run not empty of thoughts,
yet it seems a sin for the pure whiteness of a page
to be marred with the blackness of simple words.
As you can be filled with black ink,
my mind can be filled with a new thought.
How silly I am,
wasting day as if it were but a casual friend in
for a stay!
Letting the moments but slip away
as my mind ponders those frivolous little thoughts.
My pen shall dance my dreams across the page ...
Dance mighty pen, pirouette undisturbed
and leave your unforgettable mark ....
I would have given you my name,
had I not realized its triviality.
How silly of me,
what superiority we give to such
a superficial nuisance.
dream not of a prettier garden than the weeds
in your custody.
Dream not of the stars or lands beyond
the earth on which you stand.
Dream not, child."
But why must I be so?...
... a child, that is.
Is not a child a gift of heaven?
Let me dream,
if only of my name;
it being as trivial as my thoughts
and the mind in which they were conceived.
by B. C., West Buxton, ME
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.