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Wednesday, March 26, 2014

Pen

Cool, let's write about inanimate objects and make them sound like distressed angst-filled teenagers. Or domestic abuse victims. (Terribly sorry to those who might be either)

Pen

Oh boy, he’s using me again
...Oh… he’s using me again
Every time he picks me up with his firm and soft hands (oh they’re oily)
It feels wonderful… but awful.
I may be a tool, but I am also…
No.
Wait.
That’s it.
I’m just a tool.
Free for use… disuse and misuse
I am just a bleeder
Leaking loose liquids on to what I hope is quality A4 paper…
Whatever it is… it’s soft
I wish for once… I could write what I want to write,
Say what I want to say
Being as small as I am is hard
And eventually… I’ll lose significance
Replacement with better ones, less empty ones, different colored ones,
The one he accidentally grabbed instead of me…
I have no mouth and I must scream…
Is this all my life will be?
Because even if I run out…
I want him to use me

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