There’s a pen writing my story
Across pages full of blotches
Strikes, tears, blood, even,
But there’s no story
Just empty pages full
Of meaningless scribbles
All the ends I see are so
Full of flaws, so unwanted
The end I want, I simply
cannot see, not that I’m
Blinded, no, I don’t have
the freedom to.
It’s lonely here, by
Myself on these bumpy
Pages, all my time spent
Trying to make an
Appearance in another’s
Book, but in vain, I
End up back here,
Alone again.
Sometimes I wonder if
The pages of my book
Are black, there’s nothing
Visible, is that why
Everyone drops it as
Soon as they pick it up?
It’s easier to believe that
Than the alternative,
That the words so
Repulsive that they
Cannot carry on.
Maybe I’ll see a future
If I become more
Productive, clear,
If I become less,
Lazy, messed up?
Do I blame me, the
Pen, who wobbles,
Uncertain, sputtering
ink, or do I blame the
Hand that holds it
Down, forcing it to
Write?
~Sumaiyya (19BLB1048)
