This Pen Poem by John I Nash

I still use this pen; it is an old friend it never asks where, why or when. I do not blame it for my many mistakes, it has seen many successes, failures and heart aches.

This old pen, like life has no delete button; the pen makes me own my errors, ink cannot be easily erased. I must cross out each unused word and discard it from my mind; this is a painful procedure at best and at worst a thirst for a word that may not exist.

Having this pen does not make me a better author of stories, poems or lyrics. The pen knows my reality. When I hold it, the pain that it expels is agonizing, so I let it bleed out; harshness, sorrow, death, love lost, evil, and punishment earned.

Once in a great while, for a very short time, virtue and goodness spills forth. The pen makes me share all those things good and bad with you, by doing so we get to keep what we gave away.

I feel privileged to use this old pen my friend and when I put it away, I know it will wait for me and should I not arrive, this inanimate thing this pen will cry as I.