My pen does not want to write,
it lies flat in my hand, listless and uninterested.
It will not think of one easy line to start off the flow of words.
Ink will not touch paper, until it feels inspiration
to put life on these lines.
Why must it be so full of whimsy
and not feel the frustration of an empty page.
It is not tempted by a dalliance in the margin to wet its appetite.
This pen is empty of all thought,
there is a void where words are first to appear.
How am I to ask it to lend potency to its ink
and let it flow like pebbles in a tumbling river,
words rolling over one another in their eagerness
to please and to fill this parchment.
I implore you my pen, please do not leave me here
to dry up in a literary desert.
Fix this reluctance, end this resistance
and give joy to whoever wants to read your words.
I will lay you down, never to pick you up again,
you stubborn stick of woe.
But your slender lines and easy roll will win back my heart
and let the poetry create worlds for us to imagine.
Is your ink transparent?
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