This is not a poem
It's anything but a poem
I need to write
I need to get it out
All this pent up angst
Where did it go
The inspirational voice
That used to be so loud
John sits across from me
Talking endlessly
About this and that
Me not really listening
Nodding my empty head
Scribbling on my pad
Trying to make something
Of nothing
I bought two new pens last night
Highway robbery, I say
Six dollars for 2 fine point pens
It seems, as a poet
I cant get enough pens
Its all that I prefer to write with
Pencils can go straight to hell
Seemingly weak willed to me
Sitting on a page
Easily erased
Always needing sharpened
Breaking tips now and again
Who needs the headache
Everything just flows better with a pen
Smooth with a pen
Oh and paper!
Don't get me started on paper
Seems like I'm always in short supply
Looking for scraps here and there
I digress
You see?
Writing about nothing
Can turn into something
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem