poems

pen

for as long as I have had this
pen it will not write what I want
it to write; I hold it firmly yet
gently in my hand and then I
lay it soft against the paper waiting
then coaxing it to flow with
wisdom but all that scratches
out is drivel, useless lengthy ramblings
from a pen that by its actions cannot
be mine - no pen of mine could be so
shy and incapable with so much of
so little to say - mine I say as
if I have some control over this pen
as if I can possess it like that.


cg 3[2002-2008]