I wrote this in the Spring of 1996 at the community college I was attending at the time. I found it in my closet and felt like sharing it:
well it writes words and draws circles around thoughts
what does a pen do?
um, it doodles and spills ink on these thin lines?
the pen cannot do anything without me
just sits on the corner of my bed and maybe it will roll off
falling on the carpet and then i have to reach down
and pick it up and write more
but what else does a pen do?
i dunno stabbing someone that keeps asking me this?
its a weapon to fight off writers block
ideas like to hide from me but my pen is my light saber
that attacks these blank pages with aggressive force
i force and shove my words on this stupid piece of paper
because it just wastes away until i come along
stomping, biting, digging my aggressive words of wisdom
in between these tiny rows
i squeeze the tip of this pen which is having a hard time
providing the ink when i want it to be read
by a random curious person that happens to stumble
upon this bitch fight between the pen and
the crappy recycled notebook paper
oh how i hate this!
and now a new sheet for me
to express myself
or at least whatever seems to be seeping
from my head at the current moment
but soon it will pass
and so will my gas
and then the room will clear
but not my pen because i am
its master painter
no pen is useful without my strokes
of curiosity and the whimsical nature
that i possess
what good is a pen without rivers