The twirling pen yearns.
It yearns to kiss the paper again;
like a cage bird who desires to fly free.
It sees the unstrung violin;
the beautiful instrument that can only sigh
Yes, instead of releasing it’s ink,
as it is meant to,
my pen twirls and whirls.
It dance through my fingers,
the same pattern repeats.
It yearns to kiss its beloved paper once more.
Yet it only spins,
like the unstrung violin,
its purpose is unfulfilled.