I was hiding in a pen,
held by a hand,
And as the hand used me,
I was the words
that the hand wrote:

Fresh,
Then dried,

But Still, I was me,

the ink.

I must say,
A part of my soul was left behind,
in the many places where the hand wrote.
And as the hand wrote, in many places,
my lifespan shorten more and more.

Until all that was left of me
Was my vessel, the pen,
the body, that the hand held,

With so much love,

And the parts of me that were left behind,

That weren't tossed into the trash.