The Pen

with a mind―my mind. (I gave it away, didn’t you know? It’s called suicide.) I gave myself up before paper and pen. Paper became the oppressed; Pen became the ruler― The tyrant. And I became the deceased.

with a mind―
my mind.
(I gave it away,
didn’t you know?
It’s called suicide.)
I gave myself up
before paper and pen.
Paper became the oppressed;
Pen became the ruler―
The tyrant.
And I became the deceased.

The pen wrote.
It moved.
Willingly,
I gave it my life.

Would the story be
of a knight in shining armor,
one who would come
and free me
from this death?

I wait…
for the pen to lift
from the canvas.
The pen speaks.
The book,
the slave,
accepts the pen’s declaration
with folded arms,
waiting and hoping
for deliverance.

And I just watch.
I write.
Me, the author,
dying a little more
with every word.

© S. Ann Comte, 11 February 2014

Posted by

Writer. What more can be said. Actually, a lot. So, just read and find out.

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