My Pen

I have lost myself

the day I sat down my pen

and told It I would not be writing anymore

 

It could not understand what it had done

although I told It

again and again

that it were not the one to blame for our unfortunate departure

(in terms of friendship)

that all good things come to an end

and so mediocre things must end also

if ending is what’s cool these days

for the Good to want to do it

 

It expressed to me in the simplest of language

(though colloquial and so not that simple at all)

that it did not want me to go

We had good times, It said

Great times, even

We have laughed and cried

and have made others laugh and cry as well

and that says something

We were good together you and I, It said

Why do we have to say goodbye?

 

And I made fun of It for rhyming

we don’t usually do that you see

And so I sat It down even closer

and told It the truth

 

I’m not done writing really, I said

(though how I wish that were the truth)

I have merely taken up typing

I have to be with the times you see

Nothing printed can be published anymore

and printing is all we know how to do

and yes signatures are important

but they don’t really count

 

It cried and cried

It’s blue ink somehow smearing onto everything I own

and I let it

for one day I found my pen had dried up

and without too much guilt

I threw it away

ran to my keyboard

and wrote this