When I look at a pen running out of ink, I keep in mind that one day, I to will run out
The pen will lay in his little pen coffin
Next to the pencils, will sit the mother and father pen, weeping quietly
In the back stand the scissors, the tape, maybe a stapler, shaking their heads in disbelief
They all come to say their goodbyes, to there once proud friend
The paper will take the longest, knowing that without the pen he is a blank slate
He will look in awe at his befallen comrade, maybe even shed a small tear, but then he will smile
The paper will be paired with a new pen, which will grow up with him
No one can replace the papers friend, but every pen knows his job, and the longevity of his career
Hopefully this pen will be the pen of a great writer
A pen to an adventurous spirit, which will take him on a wonderful journey
One that will create master pieces, songs, art
Every pen dreams to be the pen of a writer, of a literature genius
The paper sits back down to his seat, everyone starts to depart, back to the desk
The paper stays; he stays to keep the memory of his friend alive