Thursday, May 17, 2012

My Pen - By Jerá




Fountain pen, ball point, felt tipped
I can't choose, my first choice I'm tight lipped
My pen is my weakness, my primary vice
I'll pick a Parker any day over Vodka and ice
My pen is my needle in the arm, my powder on the nose
The poison of my choice, for my poetry and prose
My slim Staedler is my mistress, for better or for worse
Till death do us part, will never let her go till I ride in a hearse
My pen is alive she bleeds on my pad
Possessive too, she marks her territory on every page I ever had
My ballpoint is an exorcist, battling with my demons
Often times, my physiotherapist - my crutch I can lean on
The pen is mightier than the sword, that's a little cliché
Swords are obsolete but pens will remain, even past doomsday
They'll read this when I'm food for worms, so my pen is immortality
Let me print that to make certain of its clarity
My pencil is my therapist, my low budget shrink
I write when I'm troubled, when I'm on the brink
Even when I'm at the limit, my tearless eyes never cry
So my pen weeps on paper till my pen runs dry
My pen carries me when I'm running mental laps
She is only human, exhausted, my pen is capped


1 comment:

1manview said...

I feel you. The mighty pen...

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