The pens fault

I have a pen,

it's called a Bic.

It's doing nothing!

Makes me sick.

Mid afternoon

I sat to write.

Nothing yet,

Now midnight.

I planned to write,

a poem or sonnet.

The page is blank!

There's nothing on it.

It is enough

to make me cry.

Sorry pen.

You must die!

I have pencil,

full of lead.

I wrote this rhyme,

Now off to bed.