Poetry Pen
Sitting on the table,
I wait as my master thinks,
He has a paper on the desk
Ready to pop me open and write.
My master is a clever man,
And I his beautiful pen,
He uses me once a day,
To write down all his poems.
My master is a poet.
One of many others
And will soon think of an idea.
He will pick me up,
And click me open,
And use me to write a poem.
I am his Poetry Pen.
Copyright © Ashlyn Mundell | Year Posted 2016
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