Nov 4, 2020
This is one of my favorite poems because, well, I’m a writer. I believe I wrote the poem in college when taking a bunch of English theory classes. The big question “Is the author dead?” really made me think about the power of the pen and the creation of words that I immediately disown when I put them to paper.
What do you think?
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.
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
With every word.