A pen running out of ink
assisted me with getting out my thoughts
on to paper.
These thoughts aren't really a poem.
Unless someone comes around
thinking it's a masterpiece without
a signature.
But still I could.
I could sign my name at the bottom
at top speed
like signing my life away to this very pen.
This pen I hold
that I probably found on the side
of a road
has helped me through a lot.
This pen has helped me
pass a nursing test.
This pen has helped me write a dozen speeches
to give in front of church.
This pen has helped me from
taking too many pills
or making a checkerboard
on my wrist.
This pen.
So simple
yet so ordinary.

I ask,
Is it more poetic
to write the most
beautiful of stanzas
devoid of any truth
or meaning?

Or, writing
from raw emotion
where beauty resides
behind the words
and ink flows
like blood and tears?