An ode to the pen on my bedside table
Image Courtesy: Pinterest
A half run-out pen in hand,
Sputtering its last drops of ink onto the pages it has seen many times before
Writing and writing and writing
Pen to paper, mind to matter
A string of ink tying page to page, year to year
On one end, I sit at the foot of my bed in my childhood room
Blonde hair, blue braces
A watch tan line on my wrist, running shoes in the corner
Paragraphs of sweltering summer heat line the pages
Paragraphs of my hopes, my dreams
The girl I am, the girl I want to be
Spiraling into the next four years this notebook holds
Into a cold January
Cursive engraved on the the letter she’ll never see
It’s not love, it never was
But my pen doesn’t know that, it continues on just the same
Looping and spinning and circling
Writing feverishly, a slew of vowels and consonants in an order I’m sure has already been done before,
Someone has written the same sentiments, give or take a few details,
Different muse
But this muse ends with my hands in my hair,
Back at the end of my bed
Water staining the page I look down at
Heart on my sleeve, head in my hands
And yet I keep writing,
Writing into the end of senior year
No clue of what was yet to come, yet hopeful just the same
Senior sunset, taco bell, driving aimlessly on backroads
Holding my best friend tight, knowing that soon she wouldn’t live a fifteen minute drive away
Staring at the clock in my kitchen, watching the minute hand move in its slow arc within the frame
You can’t stop time
But I wish you could at least slow it down
Savor the bittersweet goodbyes just a little bit longer
Leave the packed up car in the driveway running for just a few more minutes
But time doesn’t afford us that luxury
And so it continues, smooth ink on lined paper
Halfway across the state, in a room with freshly hung posters
Pictures lining the wall behind my bed
Messy bun, loose papers spread across the desk, empty coffee beside me
Somehow less sure of what I wanted to do with my life then I was a mere three months ago
Somehow feeling empowered by that,
Knowing that I could go anywhere from here
That I was no longer bound by city lines, by my parents’ expectations
By the expectations and plans I had put on myself years prior,
Flipping through the catalog of my life held within that same notebook
Pen back in my hand
Words coming out at a pace that I cannot keep up with
Some tall tale of tragedy, of love, of high ideals
Some story that I have not lived, yet write about as if I have
Some story that I have lived, yet cannot come to terms with
Coming from the other end of the almost dry ballpoint pen.
Strike Out,
Writer: Chloe Herd
Editor: Samantha Goldberg
Graphic Designer:
Tallahassee