Nothing in my life is permanent,
not my home,
family,
not even memories.
I lose everything
and everyone.
But this pen says differently,
it gives a sense of stability
through its jet-black ink.
You can’t remove it,
you can cover it,
but its still here.
It’s permanent,
stable,
immortal,
something I yearn for.
So you want to know why I write in pen?
Here’s your answer:
Are you happy with it?
Angry?
Upset?
Do you pity me (even though you shouldn’t)?
Or are you surprised that it’s deeper, more personal than
“just a pen?”
It’s psychological––
the reasoning of a broken child.
All I ask for is something permanent,
and this pen gives me just that.