My pen, poised,

The ink holding its breath,

The blank pages mocking me.

I hold the pen, sweaty in hand -

Above the canvas, wishing for its difference,

In colour, texture, ink.

The pen - the once mighty pen -

Was losing grip, slipping away,

No longer can my words work.

My arm, starting to tire,

Droops down, hitting the page;

The pen, falling out of hand, rolling -

Off the desk onto the floor.

Before it fell however;

The pen left its mark,

The small ink blot on the white.

I realize that this, this mark,

Is exactly how I feel to the world.