My poem got trapped in a Pen.
“Please, Pen, begin to write again.”
Snobby as a Fountain, Pen clicked,
“Your rhyme’s not worthy of my ink.”
“Release my words on paper here,
it’s not your job to judge or jeer.”
“Stanzas neither worthy nor sage,
I won’t allow upon a page.”
“You’re so old fashioned and cruel,
soon, you’ll be a dry fossilized tool.”
With that, I snapped on Pen’s cap,
and moved blank notebook from my lap.
Pen’s critique sounded much muter,
when I turned on my computer.
But, I feel somewhat frustrated,
poem’s still hidden and hated.