by Olivia Bredbenner

Created on: June 13, 2009   Last Updated: June 14, 2009

It rests carefully hardly anyone knows
The ink it has shed and the stories it told
Yet all the while bearing my ebb and flow
Of the letters unsent and words unsold

A non-threatening way it holds a place
Among scattered papers it hides
It waits to be called into pace
Freeing words that lay deep inside

It feels the chill of its dormancy
With drying ink in time
Writing with skip of infrequency
Leaving blank spaces as mine

With comfort I found my favorite
As if holding the hand of a friend
The color that I now savor
Used with the best I have penned.


Lost I am with another
As if the hand of a stranger
A search that goes on for hours
Missed annoyed and with anger

My pen has become a friend
Hoping it will always be
Awaiting my reaching hand
Inking the words I set free

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