The dark pen

The dark pen sits awkwardly as I write,
like two lovers touching for the first time.
My mind can't trigger its heart,
my heart can't make up its mind.

A beautiful gift has become to rot,
infesting the entire being.
Been cast aside like a forgotten toy,
left to soak in simplicity.

Now I reach inside,
inside the embroidered cage for the bird.
To give it freedom
and stretch its wings.

Rusty,
like my red tricycle as a child.

Scattered,
like an insect searching for a window.

Powerful,
like words spilling from my heart.

The dark pen sits awkwardly as I write,
as it all flows back to me.