My Pen

I have a pen that drips the words

Upon the piece of paper white
All I do is pick it up And on my paper it does write

The words will form before my eyes

As passive I do stare
This pen in hand upon the pad Begins to form a story there

Sometimes it is a story sweet

With lovers wanting more and more
While other times it tells a tale Of solitude and woe

I never know just what I’ll get

When in my hand I take
This magical writing instrument What stories will it make