I grab a pen to capture my fleeting thought
It scratches and indents instead of marks.
The ink is dried despite being freshly bought.
It’s constructed with no replacement parts.
I throw it away along with my idea,
That likely belonged there regardless.
All of my good ones were replaced by the pharmacopeia,
Leaving my work almost heartless.
My brick of glass and silicon illuminates again,
Taking my attention from my words.
Reflexively, I open it, unable to abstain.
Another message from the muses misheard.
I watch myself mindlessly flip through the apps,
Out of body, like a disappointed father.
My plans to write collapse.
Why even bother?
Maybe, perhaps,
I’ll write another.
No, that’s absurd.
And working against the grain.
Maybe I can still find the words.
In the absence of the rain,
Or the sunlight in the park.
In the battle recently fought
Or in the moonlight after dark.
I grab a pen to capture my fleeting thought…
