Pens

Ink hasn’t scratched paper

For poetry, at least

In the last few decades

Nothing for us to feast

So, what have we done?

Have we made any progress?

Is there food for the needy?

Are there sane people in congress?

Is there no pollution?

Is there no crime?

Does world peace have solution?

But, do we have spare time?

Do we get to see our families?

Do we get to sleep a lot?

Are we mutated calamities?

Is Shakespeare still being taught?

Are kids even learning?

Do we have enough care?

My thoughts, are in me, churning

My heart and soul are burning

My heart can spill on pages

But that is not the same

As giving a letter to your friend

You didn’t write for fame

Pens are the greatest tool

Man has ever created

With it, we love, we care

The rest, that’s debated

Emotion hasn’t scratched

Anything, at all

For the last few centuries

It’s the reason for our fall.