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…
