I sit here waiting to be touched,
to be held again by delicate fingers.
For the ink to flow from my vein
onto the innocent white page.
A black river awaits within me
to be unleashed with beautiful fury.
Words to be expressed through me,
as I am only a vessel for the mind.
Forgotten now, my well runs dry
and I stand among my fallen friends.
Rejected tools with no further use
together in a cup on the corner of the desk
Teasingly the hand may choose me once more
vigorously shaking me back and forth,
and pressing me to the paper until
they see there is nothing left for me to say.