This pen is perfect

I really don't know why I love it so much 

It's purple and green, which is an odd combination

I have no idea how the ink hasn't run out by now

I've had it for two years

It really is perfect, except for one simple flaw

It has no cap

The pen just sits there on my table, it's point exposed

How has it not dried yet

How has it still kept going

Even though it is missing a vital part of itself


Maybe that's why I love it so much

Because it is not perfect

Because its cap is gone, yet it still flows ink

Into these pages

Going against the odds and still surviving

When others, perfect, have failed

It's a silly and far-fetched reason

But I love it

This poem is about: 


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