Permanent Pen
I’ve read things that say that’s what a pencil is for—
for mistakes we make that we can erase.
But if you’re a pen, a permanent thing,
then when you break, you spill out, covering the whole sheet.
I don’t know what my handwriting looks like, or what story it tells.
I don’t know if I’ll be saved once I’m one with the dirt,
when six feet doesn’t seem like much.
I hope I am. I wish every night
that my story won’t be forgotten, but become a calling in the middle of the night.
I don’t want plain old black ink.
I want red, blue—maybe even pink.
I don’t want a boring title like The Girl That Once Lived.
I want to be The Girl That Climbed Life’s Mountains.
Yeah, it’s weird.
It’s cringe.
But the cover suits me.
I hope I’m a pen that makes mistakes worth reading.
I don’t want to be erased, looked at only for a good review.
I want to be felt, read, and heard.
I want to be torn, cried upon, and read over and over again.
I want to be a book passed from one pair of hands to another.
I want people to hate things I did.
I want people to love things I said.
I don’t want to be a pencil.
I want to be a permanent pen.