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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