A pen:

a brush that paints a shadow of my past,
a guide of stories to lead into a future's path,
a maddening chorus of songs; all that play in parts,
an echo that shouts the silence of my heart,
a remainder of me working on myself to be a work of art

But I'm still somewhat unfulfilled;
knowing that there's more of me to write
To write of people, this world, and life
as I write better than a day before- I'm still unskilled
Always in this constant unending plight
cursed by words playing in my mind and a drive
And as soon as I've died; you'd remember me as being skilled