The pen that I’m using protests
It doesn’t like the paper it’s against
Even while I am writing this down
I can almost pick up the faint sound
Of unwillingness from the paper on which it is pressed
My fingers can feel them resenting
I’m not sure whose bitterness is greater
As I keep on tainting the paper
And the ink in the pen is depleting
Despite protestations it keeps bleeding
Maybe they just don’t agree
And I’m forcing something not meant to be
I tell them that I know better
And I keep pushing them together
When really this is all about me.
Underthecovers 