I am a pen.
I am sleek and shiny
With handsome black ink.
A gold sheath covers
My liquid underneath.
Click, click, point out, point in.
I bow my head and write eloquent words.
I will not let my ink dry out.
Sometimes a grasp manhandles me.
Other times, I am caressed by a gentle hand.
I glide along the page
Forming beautiful picture words.
It is an odd feeling though,
With every word I write and every stanza that emerges,
A little bit of life flows out of me
Bringing me closer to the end.
It does not matter though.
This special feeling every time I write
Is a feeling of importance
Because people need me
Even love me.
They cannot wait to see
My latest masterpiece.