I hold a pen in my hand,
It is ordinary and abused,
My habit of chewing while thinking has rendered it pitted and scarred,
A fair reflection of the words it scribbles on these pages,
Yet, though its gnarled appearance,
I consider this small, insignificant object my very eyes,
When emotion takes me, it begins to drip them onto page after page,
A mute outcry of sorts,
My salty, temporary tears taking the form of acrid, permanent ink.
The ink I know all too well,
It stains my fingers day after day,
Bearing silent witness to the confessions of my sins,
And when I chew too deeply,
As I prone to doing in my absentmindedness,
The foul liquid fills my mouth like an invading army,
Taking hold of my taste buds and choking them in bile,
In a way my unspoken sins finding their way into my mouth,
On the tip of my tongue for a while, but never spoken.
If only these tongueless pages could speak,
Or perhaps they should not,
Their neatly folded edges chattering away their mad contents,
My secrets whispered in the desolate dark screamed out by emotional paper,
No, no , no,
They are confined to the obvious prison of my notebook,
Locked away forever by a corrupt judge,
Their evidence too damning to be heard,
Left to rot with an ever growing populous.
It sits there on my desk,
Its geometrical appearance belying the chaos it holds within,
The curious doodlings of a short attention span adorning its otherwise immaculate skin,
Their ink glinting in the sunshine like some sort of protective runes on a precious tome,
An eccentric warning to all not to read the knowledge contained within,
Yet I find myself staring at it again and again during the day,
As if something important might come oozing out at any moment,
So it gets hidden away in the deepest, darkest corner of my desk,
Why is it so hard to keep secrets?
