By Shem Onderi
If my pen would speak,
It could tell of the times I paused writing—
Not that I was weak,
Only that the ideas faded out
When my mind drifted to non-issues.
The pen would complain of how I ended paragraphs abruptly.
It would grumble about my heavy fingers,
How they pressed it to the page as though squeezing ink out—
Yet somehow, it would never mention
How small it felt within my hand.
The pen would boast of arriving full of ink,
Only for my tireless writing to drain it dry.
It would tire of the task, yet I pushed it on,
Coaxing out the last drops of thought—
Even slipping it upside down into my pocket.
The pen would recall how it was choked, turned upside down,
Forced to bleed onto my shirt.
It would testify to the harsh words it carried,
And when the ink ran out, it became worthless—
Yet the marks it left behind remained priceless.
Sometimes, it would write in disordered strokes,
And the recipient would complain,
Blaming the pen for spilling too much ink.
Other times, the handwriting was admired,
And the praise went to the pen.
Still, it would remember the day
It signed a hefty cheque for me—
A moment from which it gained nothing.
My pen may never appreciate how fortunate it was
To have been chosen by me
From among many, of different shapes and colors.
It remembers that once it ran dry,
I simply picked another—
And the writing went on.