The First Few Breaths of a Poet

Pens are marvelous creatures, aren't they?

They live and breathe and bleed.

Oh, yes how they bleed

All over pages, endlessly marking history,

Leaving their messy trail wherever they go.

 

The thing is, I was always scared of my pen,

As most people are afraid of beautiful things,

And I was sure he was afraid of me.

The sharp gleam of his edges

longed for his next owner, a better owner,

Or anyone but me, really.

 

But one day, the pen began to bleed.

Fiercely, Ferociously.

I panicked. A pen had never bled for me before.

Thoughts swarmed my head, filling up every little space.

I was shaken awake-

 

With my mind reeling, I glided the pen across paper,

writing words, sentences, paragraphs,

Scratching out mistakes with vigor

Until the page was full and the pen was silent.

And that’s when I realized that it wasn't the pen that bled.

 

It was me.

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741