Ink

As my Pen runs out of Ink, I'm forced to stare, to stop and think.

   This Pen that flitters, jumps and dances; over page it skitters, prances

This Pen that colors, draws, and spells: This Pen, which over wording swells.

   This Pen runs dry, it dots the line. This Pen stops, gets cast aside. 

My Pen that dries. MY Pen that stops. My Pen tries to fill in the dots. 

   These dots, these stops, unpleasant drops, of ink that fill unpleasant thoughts. 

As my Pen runs out of Ink, I'm forced to stare, to stop and think.

This poem is about: 
Me
My family
My community
My country
Our world

Comments

Need to talk?

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