Lifting the Pen

I lift the pen —
angry, lazy, foolish friend,
half-loved, half-hated,
good for dreams,
quick to break.
 
It whispers nonsense,
spills fire and air,
hides in its root,
stops in rows,
a release,
a freedom unnamed.
 
The pen speaks for itself,
no microphone, no patience,
only drifting thoughts
and a pride in hiding.
 
Some days generous,
some days cruel,
writing love in rose-water,
forgetting the road,
hearing the world’s lament.
 
Where is hope?
Who will take me across?
I lift the pen —
but close the page,
staring at the earth’s road,
waiting for someone
to know the honesty
of the penman.