The shabby old Pen
Dragged its hostile feet
Over an unwilling track
Towards the blank sheet
Commissioned to the task
Of manufacturing art
It grumbled to play
The forever taxing part
The art of scripting
It professed to master
Now it longed to let
Its firm grip to falter
Staggering on its course
And seething in resentment
It stumbled to halt
On a silky parchment
Glowering at the paper
It ensued to start
Yet another masterpiece
A glorious piece of art
It plodded wearily
Tracing invisible dots
On the vacant cosmos
To sketch vivid fonts
It sowed smart alphabets
Together into sense
To form precise words
That connote feelings intense
It interleaved the words
Into sentences profound
And laced them to adorn
The silky white background
It filled glaring voids
With emphatic reflections
Translating thoughts to words
Yielding a face to emotions
While it slogged away
Its head bent low
The providential Paper
Lazed under its flow
The Pen turned to glimpse
Jewels in its wake
And cheered in elation
Despite the ominous ache
With its footprints engraved
Forever on foundation
It watched its script flower
Into a visionary creation
Euphoria turned to despair
As it bore the honour
Of yet again being abandoned
And shelved into a corner
While bearer of literary finesse
Decorated in golden frame
Its smart calligraphy applauded
The Page basked in fame
The Pen screamed injustice
Its voice echoed unheard
Except for the usual audience
The frowning old Cupboard
The astute Cupboard sighed
At laments of misfortune
And advised the Pen
To remain immune
"The wise do not complain
Of miserable fate
They tend to concede
The morsels on their plate"
The Pen grew pensive
At this advice
Blurting out a question "Is vengeance a vice?"
Before the Cupboard responded
The Pen was summoned again
With decisive steps this time
It labored devoid of pain
It sketched away in abandon
Until suddenly losing hold
It skid across the Page
Slitting it apart so cold
A bloody tear glared back
At the smiling red Pen
As it put on its humble cap
And walked to its den...
