My Pen

As my pen,
leaks ink.

I have let me hand release it's shiny plastic shell,
which reflects my damaged face,
my half-dead winking eye,

as it crashes,
lifeless and bleeding it's ink,
from it's wet and molten core.

My pen is not a tool.
My pen is not dead.

My pen is an invaluable friend,
who I can talk to when I'm lonely,
without opening my mouth.

Ink does not bleed on to the paper.
My heart, a fractured peice of my puzzled soul,
bleeds through it's design,
onto my medium,
into my journal,
which holds my inner most thoughts and feelings.

No hugs, no laughs, no shared tears,
can replace my pen.

My pen is my only true companion,
when what I really need,

someone who knows how to listen.