.The Pen.The pen turns over in her hand,More Like This
Embraced in the place between her thumb and index finger.
Back and forwards.
Smooth over dry skin.
And her eyes follow
With the light shining off the gray textures.
On it's skin.
The black liquid
Until it is called upon
To make love to white pages,
And become one with her hand.
And in a room full of noise, bad lighting and the monotonous sound of equations explained a hundred times over,
The pen looks oddly beautiful to her,
Almost like a part of her.
Or a part of a love once lost. (or never found)
Residing there in the valley between fingers.
Caressing the texture of bleached dry skin.
They are one and the same.
PenDripping inkMore Like This
From the pen's overused tip
You almost pity it
Dying to dry as it catches light
You're drawn to the glare
From the pen's overused tip
You wondered what it could have done
Embellishes a sheet
You wonder how it'd look on you
From a now-dead pen
You almost pity it
PenMy story startedMore Like This
About a bleeding pen
Dripping on me
And staining my skin
My fingers shook
As I tried to think
And grabbed the pen
Before I could blink.
I love to write
But lately I've stopped
My way with words
And expressiveness, I've dropped
I see that pen
Lying impotently there
I want to pick it up
But my mind is bare.
Who cares? I say
And hold the pen tight
I close my eyes
And wonder what to write.
My mind is blank
It won't settle down
I feel too much
Too many thoughts spinning round.
So I stop and remember
What a five year old says
"I am sad today because
My friend hurt my feelings"
I think about it
Maybe I don't have to try
To say something clever
I'm not going to lie
And I write using words
That everybody knows
Some people won't like it
That's just how it goes.
"Pen", I whisper
Using it's ink
The liquid makes me thirsty
Surely poisonous drink.
I tell it, with watering eyes
I hope to die
Before the pen dies.
"Do you know"
I ask the pen, taking a breath
My crying is
Pen and InkMore Like This
blue blood flows through this single vein
and drips onto my page
forming letters that follow the motions of my hand.
tough skin keeps my fingers
from disturbing the fragile case
that encompasses the liquid flowing across this page.
in the form of words
this blood is my heart
spilling out to articulate my every thought
my every feeling.
whether it be of beauty
or simply insane ramblings of a disturbed adolescent
this blood is me.
Pen and PaperMore Like This
I lose all my words,
when it comes to you.
You make me want to learn
all the languages of the world-
a hundred ways to hand you my heart,
a thousand ways to thank you.
I want to make love to you
with pen and paper,
and never touch the same place twice.
But I'm bound by imperfect English,
and this tongue that tangles around your smile.
So I keep grasping at threads of thought
that turn into cliches
as my hands close around them-
hoping to stumble across the right ones,
the ones that say what I feel for you
isn't like anything else-
is more than these words can say.
The Scratching Of A PenMore Like This
Scratching Of A Pen
I always knew you'd stay strong,
When I left your side.
You carried on with your fractured life.
The sweet smell of honey radiating from the larder.
And the morning dew drops,
Still clinging to the Lady's Mantle I gave you,
On your 18th birthday.
Simple memories of me.
I look back at the old clarinet,
Lying broken, in pieces on the kitchen floor.
Reflecting the psalm of a broken heart,
Your broken heart.
Memories of us together, forever grip
The scent of freshly washed laundry.
That I helped you with so many times,
When your washer stopped spinning.
Although my life has stopped spinning,
Yours will not stop un-folding.
Keep the letters wrapped up in red velvet,
As I sing you a melody down from the heavens.
You look back to this old book,
By a poor poets hand.
And see the ink stains running,
Intertwined with my tears.
Our song comes on the radio,
'Truly, Madly, Deeply' You sigh.
A wet page, freshly salted.
Masked by the sounds of a gentle breeze.
The Pen.The pen flows beneath my fingers.More Like This
Writing out my pains, my sorrows.
Its my escape from the world.
When the pen starts moving its just me and the paper.
It tells my life story with each stroke.
My thoughts are nothing but tools for my pen.
Its bends and shapes them until its a beautiful string of words.
I have no control of what happens when the pen enters my hand its like the pen already has a story its wishes to write and I am nothing but the vassel.
And when the pen finishes its holds my story and I am free.
By: Cody Jackson
This PenThis is my pen.More Like This
My pen is my psychiatrist.
Without this pen I would be insane.
This pen works like a faucet.
You turn it on, and my emotions flow like water.
You turn it off, and my head gets backed up like a clogged drain.
Without this pen, I would have no outlet.
My anger would build, and someone would die.
Without you knowing it, this pen may have saved your life.
It's saved my life.
This pen has emptied my head of depressing thoughts, leading me away from suicide.
This pen has emptied my head of angry thoughts too, leading me away from the death sentence.
This pen is a life saver.
It's been there when I needed him.
It's been there when I was depressed.
It's been there when I was angry.
It's been there when I was happy.
A pen like this is the best friend someone could have.
The Pen ManifestoMore Like This
The biological history of the pen is quite marvelous. Emerging from the primordial inkwell as a simple stick, it evolved into an avian form, growing beautiful—if not impractical—feathers. Steady growth has led to pens that are now far more advanced than their ancestors, having developed self-enclosed circulatory systems and the ability to live in space, underwater, and even upside-down!
Pens continue to flourish, but should we, their human masters, celebrate their progress? Or are they perhaps striving toward a future where they will no longer have need of us?
Take heed of the latest development in "penetical" technology: anti-bacterial properties. The pen breeders are touting this as the new wave for the healthy workplace. Imagine: your pen, free of disease! You bet the aliens in War of the Worlds wish they'd had these pens (and if we've spoiled anything for you, read a book). But beware, for these claims have a devious spin. If you take a c