Writing Poem by Stephanie Breuer

So often my friends and me
glide, slide, trail or race
over the
bumpy, smooth or ruffled
surfaces, you humans call
paper, carton or I don't know what.

Squeezed between
small, long, big or thin fingers;
some with chewed-off, some with long nails;
but all of them
have the same purpose in mind:
WRITING

Day in, day out,
my companions and me
are
used,
abused,
but no one cares.

Leaving graceful traces behind,
swirly lines and artful twirls,
we swiftly dance across the paper.
Leaving drawings and messages,
in all colours of the rainbow,
for generations to come...

And yet -
what do we get?

Neglected our feelings,
ignored our pains!
The merciless fingers
do not
give us
any credit.

They think it's them,
their skill,
that fills the blank surfaces
with meanings;
but no..
it's US!

Violence, Torture, Death.
My silver heart it breaks,
my friend's blue blood is shed,
when by heartless fingers tossed.

Then no more lovely lines,
only trumpery is left;
and children cry their hearts out,
for they've been bereft
of their beloved
school companions.