I love the pen and pad
But I don't think I can use it
It really makes me quite sad
That I can't seem to work it
You see, it's my confession to make
That I love to write
But it's sort of fake
What I really feel
Doesn't rhyme
So I change it's form
So it can fit the time
The pen and pad
So beautiful it feels
The sign of an intellect
Of a writer to be feared
J can't explain the reverance
For the pen and pad I posess
But surely it isn't natural
To find a workman's tool
My mind's only nest
I have found that there is a problem
The dilemma is this:
I can't really use these tools
Even though they're my mind's nest
I can't truly navigate them
With the words great writers heft
I can't form them
Into works of art
Like all the artists I envy
With words nor picture
Not short nor lengthy
You see, it's quite clear
The pen and pad
The paper and ink
They work so well together
It makes my heart sink
They inspire joy
From my hollowed throat
They are too beautiful
For words to provoke
But still I try my hand
At writing with paper and ink
Because all I can do
Is think
But all I write
Feels fake