The Pen

My feelings as a writer.

I'm sitting in the darkness with nothing but a pen
After writing for hours the pen has run dry
This pen had produced hundreds of thousands of words
These words were mighty in number but weak in readers
My life's work stood in front of me but not even I could read it.
I wrote in this darkness but I didn't even know what I was writing on
No one tried to pull me out of the darkness
I had lost my voice ages ago and now my pen
My only way of expressing myself was gone.
I sat there holding the inkless pen
I could pretend to write, no one would know the difference
But instead, I just sat with holding the pen near my heart
Hoping the ink or my life had not been wasted