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?/
1
Post Edited:2007-08-02 14:26:15
Post Edited:2007-08-02 14:36:44
Log in to comment