The Pen

I looked over
At my stack of pens
A collection so large
Much to the envy of others

I had pens, short
And long and thick
And thin, colors paling
Even the brightest of flowers

But there is one pen
That eludes my grasp, a
Pen in my stack, as
Gold as the sun

Other pens crave my touch,
My attention, listening
To my every whim.
Exhausting life for the sake of me.

But not this, this
Obstinate Gold Pen.
Smooth and cold
And unyielding.

It writes neither to
My softest caress nor
My harshest shake, my
Sucks at the ink seem futile

Then comes she,
A girl next to me.
Looks at my plight
And offers to help.

She takes the Pen
Gentle as a summer breeze.
Puts the Pen to paper,
Which finally yields.

Pen writes and writes,
Never exhausting,
Never stopping
True to his inimitable existence.

I look over, in
Barely concealed jealousy
Coveting the Pen
That evades me

Is it unfair?
Or is it the way of life?
Who deserves it more?
Me who chooses or she who makes him write?