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Even the Pen Sings

If birds can sing,  
Why can’t I?  
If the winds whistle,  
Why don’t I?  
If the rain can beat like drums,  
Why shouldn’t I?
 
I open my mouth,  
The words of the muse,  
They just don’t come.  
When the words come,  
There is no melody.  
Why can’t I sing?
 
I tried drums,  
I only made noise.  
I tried horns,  
I only made more noise.  
Is it the instrument?  
Is it just me?
 
Then I realized,  
If my voice can’t make melody  
If the instruments don’t yield to my touch  
There is an instrument I can use,  
Use it to lift my voice  
I have made it my instrument of choice.
 
It is made of plastic,  
Sometimes filled with ink.  
It is ever ready, always in sync.  
I can create glorious melodies,  
Even if my voice stinks.  
I finally can soar on eagles wings  
Knowing even the pen sings.
 
©  2012 The Refined Poet.  All rights reserved.

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