I hate my pen—
its tip is much like
a man who’s just blown
all over some hooker's
back and doesn’t even
offer his shower-for-the-night's
services to clean up
his lonely-man mess.
I hate my pen—
its subtle words
scribbled in a red,
gooey affair make me
look hypocritical
because the words I
scribble look just as
terrible and childish
as the shit
I criticize daily.
Good God, I hate my
pen—I hate it enough
to sometimes abandon
its promises of fidelity
and jump ship
to my computer
where the words
don’t look real anymore.
Come to think of it,
I hate my notebooks, too—
they’re too fucking
hard to find.
Author notes
True story; well, sort of. My notebooks, pens and I all share a love-hate relationship that goes three ways. Makes for some interesting times at night.
Comments
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the mood of this poem is sooo strong it captivates any reader and draws them to that dark mood even unknowingly
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Very appealing title. It drew in my attention immidiately. And the way you started the stanza(s) was a neat method to use on this poem. Kinda blew me off track there when I had read it. I Myself wasn't too particularly fond of the first stanza, but it's an interesting similey. The second stanza, again, opened nicely. It has a good description to it. And sorta brings you into perspective of what we're talking about. The third stanza was interesting. The way you describe the words not looking 'real' anymore. And the finishing fourth stanza. Very nice way to close the poem. Having opened the first three with saying how you hate your pen. And then ending it like you hate everything along with it, but in this case just your notebooks. Nice job!
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