A poet, so determined, to write his first line,
He wanted to make it his own; he would call it “Mine.”
His intentions were incomplex;
The pen would do the talking,
Scribbling what was next,
Instead of simply stalling.
This writing tool was his brain,
He may have gone insane,
But the words seem comprehensively—
Enough to have the read think:
“This modernized E. A. Poe,
Is literally on the brink,
Of mentally going physco!”
When his mind went blank,
The pen fulfilled its simplicity,
Then he continuously drank—
Slipping away from reality.
He woke the next morning, forgetting what he wrote,
Walking over to the table, he read the poetic note.
The onyx-colored pen had intentionally written—
Basic, honest statements, that no longer left him smitten:
“No matter how hard you try,
I will always be better than you.
With the elements of surprise,
I can make fantasy true.
Figure of speech has the upper hand,
When it’s used within me.
My audience will always demand,
A spark, I call, irony.
You mustn’t try to out-due me,
Don’t worry, you’ll be fine;
I am, what they call, Poetry,
And this will all be ‘Mine.’”
The poet felt betrayed by the pen itself,
He thought that night he wrote something worthy of his shelf.
“Once, again, another let down,” he let out with a sigh.
He threw away the pen and poem, leaving it all behind.
“Tonight I give up, Poetry; I’ll let you win this time,
Take everything and leave me,
Because it was never ‘Mine.’”