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The pen was never good to you

And you could never rule it the way you wished

It spilled its ink over each word

And contaminated each sentence with curses

None of which could ever fall from your lips

Always held between your teeth.

The pen was never good to you

But you dreamed and hoped it to be

To flow from your fingertips

And paint each word as though it were your doing.

But the pen was never good to you.

And you were never good enough.

So you look out a car window as the rain pours

And that cigarette slips from your fingers

From your whiskey stained breath a sigh develops

And you walk into the office

Because the pen was never good to you.