#1 Posted by The WeatherMan (3261 posts) - - Show Bio

There is a man, who sits on the Plan street/

In the summer heat, he wants nothing to eat/

He sits all alone, people been and gone, on a sidewalk/

He doesn’t pay attention to the mentions and the side talk/

He just sits, for the entire day/

All the people to him are just they/

They have no color, no mass, no purpose/

No life, they all look strife on the surface/

In his hands is the pen, in other the dry paper/

People ask him to move, yelling from their sky scrapers/

They give him strange glances/

He only watches as his pen dances/

And prances, it mocks him, stalks him/

He can’t sleep, cause in his sleep, it talks to him/

Saying ”You will never empty my ink/

You can write about everything and the sink/

You can think, but my ink will still last/

Way past your gasp and all your contrasts/

And it doesn’t matter how fast or how vast/

Your imagination is, you can never outlast/

No matter what blast your brain might acquire/

My ink will last way past, you should just retire/

And stop pretending, your talents are pending/

And depending, you shall never write the happy ending!”/

And it parodies and spoofs/ Jeopardizes and goofs/

Makes his insides tremble, his emblem is none/

He writes a great novel, but unaware that is it one/

He writes, then tops his previous rhyme/

In his mind, he stops the devious time/

He is more quiet than a mime/

Only sound that’s still bound, is the pen/

His foot tapping on the ground, and then/

Nothing else, he is forgotten by society/

The pen keeps his hand glued, the variety/

Of many themes and schemes in his mind/

Bind his soul to the victory, whispers from behind/

Don’t bother his kind, his and then pen are entwined/

Together, he thinks he can write forever, so blind/

He doesn’t notice the struggles of mankind/

The way his mind is designed, life is unkind/

Nobody notices him, like he is four feet tall/

And is hiding behind a four three wall/

As soon as his brain hits a stall/

The pen begins to squall and mock his fall/

Until he starts, to gather his smarts/

And compares shopping karts to hearts/

The pen darts, under his command of arts/

And part by parts, he fills the paper charts/

Determined not to lose, he prays to his muse/

The pen is confused, but to lose it must also refuse/

And keep pouring the black ink, all over the notebook/

All over his hook, those classics he must cook/

Unaware that they are, because the pen is the star/

His hand is numb, pen calls him dumb, it is so bizarre/

And while people are blinded by flying cars/

He continues to write, his mind is flying on Mars/

His whole family has been dead for ages/

While his head is still locked in the cages/

The pens just enrages, his mind engages/

Into a new height, takes flight, over the pages/

He is the most cunning amongst the stunning sages/

But nobody knows, because nobody shows any wages/

And he just sits/

His sanity is drawn to vanity, bit by bits/

Nobody looks at the man’s hooks, no sympathy/

Forget novels, he is writing the next great symphony/

But there are no instruments to play/

So day by day, even the sunshine’s ray/

Escapes him, the moon is soon gone/

Left all alone, his mind’s a cyclone/

He is the lone poet, and the pen provoked it/

The sidewalk’s shattered, a thunderbolt broke it/

And it hit so close, but he needs another dose of his craft/

He isn’t disturbed by a wind of a draft, he doesn’t need a draft/

His skill is ill, he just writes straightforward/

People think he is a statue, no one can relate toward/

And then the pen is in fright, after seeing the might/

Of the poetical knight, he just gets stronger with day and night/

The paper has lost already, written all over/

His skill doesn’t run out, like he’s bitten a clover/

So the pen attempts to beg/

As the man begins to write on his leg/

”Please, I’m not a keg, my ink/

Will run out soon, what must you think/

I would rather sink in the sink/

Than run out of my ink/

Please, you must understand, while you stand, I’m on the brink/

In your armor I see no chink/

Aren’t you thirsty? Stop to drink/

Please, hear my strife, this is my life, the ink/

If I run out, I will perish in sync!/”

But he didn’t hear it’s cries in depression/

He only started to write about lies of possession/

It’s his profession, who could have knew it would turn to obsession/

The pen tries to oppression his expressions/

But only draws out even more aggression/

Who could have predicted/ That he would become addicted/

His hand is in pain, his mind is conflicted/

He only can hope/

And the pen’s last stroke/

Was “Who will come to, rescue me?/

Princess of my dreams, will you be?”/

And the pen vanished… And for as long as he lived/

He looked up for the first time, for his rhyme, the world had nothing to give/

Nobody else was there, he was the only one/

So now, tell me, the pen or the man, Who has won?/

Post Edited:2007-08-02 14:26:15
Post Edited:2007-08-02 14:36:44

#2 Posted by Walkingstone (10636 posts) - - Show Bio

Classic idea done in a new way :D good

#3 Posted by Cryo-Wolf (12343 posts) - - Show Bio

That's awesome. I wanna say....the man? no..the pen? aye so confusing...

but still really cool.

#4 Posted by The Poet (8646 posts) - - Show Bio
@The WeatherMan: great!