I had a pen in my room

that belonged to no one,

the ink inside was purple,

most purple than most pens,

much too purple if you ask me,

but nobody ever asked,

nobody ever asked

about the pen in my room. 

How long was it there,

silent,

sitting patiently,

thinking of no one 

and no one thinking of it?

Did it smile at it’s own insignificance 

or dwell in the realms of obscurity 

just waiting to be found,

just waiting to be found by me? 

Now every day since our encounter

I turn to my pen and ask,

Pen,

is there a point to writing

lines

that mean nothing,

lines

that go nowhere,

lines 

that no one cares to read?

And pen,

what would have happened to you

had I not found you?

But more importantly,

what would have happened 

to me?

But every day it answers

with the same silent stare

thinking it absurd

that I speak to it

when it clearly cannot hear.

In saddened frustration

I throw it against the wall

and swear to never write again,

but every day

it bounces back

and strikes me in the face!

for more reading: 

http://authspot.com/poetry/train-of-thought-3/

http://authspot.com/poetry/writers-block-68/

http://authspot.com/poetry/a-word-3/

http://authspot.com/poetry/art-is-in-me/