I wish my feather was broken
birds not seen in centuries.
Ink in the container all dried out,
murder to cut down trees,
paper rarer than gold.
Death penalty for all,
young or old,
who even dare to scrawl.
My thoughts are gruff,
my words without any weight.
With fingers not mature enough
to convey anything great.
My monologues abandon me,
every request rebuffed.
Writing is not forbidden,
yet mine should be crime.
I wish my feather was broken
instead of my fake rhyme.