Dear Pen, “What happened to your dance?” I asked.
With that faint moist nib, he began to glide down the blank paper
As though answering with a wink
Making that soothing sound of scribbles;
He drew slightly arched letters and said, “I do my best, lady.”
I dance in between those fingers when you’re lost,
Waiting patiently for every thought I’m meant to paint.
Don’t you see me throwing hints while you pause to pick that perfect word?
It’s me; it’s always me who gets your dreams
The world you want to paint, the story you hold so dear…
Sometimes, I’m your old fountain pen,
Sometimes, I’m just that blinking cursor,
Waiting patiently for every thought I’m meant to paint…
If only, I could peep inside your mind & let her trust me with your thoughts
We could write, sing and dance forever…
But she’s stuck with her own puzzles,
What she makes of this world and the people…
Ask her to drop that hat,
For magic is when Pen meets the paper.
Poetry is when thoughts are set free to wander…