She sat in her corner, in her room,

Writing her soul away.

Letting the pen be her guide,

Through the darkness and the shade.

But to her dismay, it ran out of ink.

It lay lifeless and dead.

She wept for the pen,

She wept for her soul,

She wept for the many things,

that were left unsaid.

For the pen was her voice,

That guided her through the light.

It spoke of what she dare not speak,

And thought of what she dare not think.

Her voice was gone.

She shook her head in disappointment

And prayed t'was not so.

Closed her eyes, trying to turn back time,

To a destination where she still had her pen,

"Am I ever to get a replacement?"

She chuckled at that thought,

And told herself no.


This is the first time I've shown anyone my poetry. Let me know what you think?