A Black Pen

A black pen writes,
But does it live?
It laughs and cries,
With words it flies
But does it feel?
It is a mouth with no soul,
A hand with no body,
A portal to the mind,
But left behind,
It has no life.
One little pen,
Black grip,
Clear plastic,
Motionless and uninspired
It cries a lonely sob,
Without a job, it has
No purpose.
A sad drumstick it would make,
Or break apart, chewed
By a dog.
"Why this ink inside have I
If no one comes to help me fly?"
But one day soon,
A hand will come, will hold the
Pen, as should be done,
And gently, oh so gently
They will write
A sacred lullaby.

A pen alone is not a pen.
It is mere plastic,
Stagnant ink.
A pen in hand, however,
Gains a life, a voice, a heart,
A friend.