My poor pen, spill its ink on a white sheet of paper in form of the thoughts that leak from a
desperate mind. A mind that desperately tries to express to the sheet of paper what other
distracted minds could not remember, what a wounded heart could not feel, and what teary
eyes refused to see.
My poor pen, sad and distracted thinks that his ink will end just like good times do. It kills
him that with time the written words will become too heavy for the sheet of paper to hold.
And, little by little the words and thoughts will seep through the holes that the years and
wise bookworms will leave behind on what will no longer be a white sheet of paper.
While the mind, desperately looks for the forgotten feelings, my pen rests in the hands of
the poet. Bravely accepting that it is slowly losing its ink like a young old man loses his
At time, it feels used, alone, sad, and feels as if it was nothing but a witness to the despair of
a lonely mind that takes refuge on a piece of paper.