Ode to the Inkless Pen

September 19, 2009
By SycamoreTreeLand BRONZE, Alamar Avenue, California
SycamoreTreeLand BRONZE, Alamar Avenue, California
3 articles 0 photos 0 comments

Scribbling down the paper;
It stops at line 17,
When the blue color fades away.
It is a river turning to dirt.
There is nothing left
In this blue pen of mine.
It is a roller coaster jerking to a halt,
A bird falling to the ground.
It is love stopping mid-heartbeat
Where care is left forgotten.
It is a corridor ending at a dead-end
Where a doorway should be.
Where my full poem ages behind a wall
Yearning to be read.
There is further to be written,
But not enough to write it with.
Line 17 wasn’t where it should have ended.
The pen died first, slaying the poem.
It is a pen with no ink
It is a poem with missing words
It is a bird falling to the ground.

The author's comments:
My English teacher had us write down ideas for a poem and then my pen ran out of ink while I was in the middle of writing down ideas. I wanted to write about something simple, but make it sound deeper than it seems at first thought. Pens run out of ink all the time--but there is more behind the shortage of ink than meets the eye.

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