A piece I wrote for my final manuscript in my Imaginative Writing class last semester. Humor piece, with a pen speaking to a sheet of paper.

Poem: Do you ever read me?

Pen: What?

Poem: Do you read me?

Pen: Sometimes.

Poem: After you’ve slaved and labored, after I am wrought like a sword from your forging hammer. Do. You. Read. Me?

Pen: I don’t exactly have eyes…

Poem: But you strike every chord, ever word, every piece. Every syl-la-ble.

Pen: I know what words you are. I can see your shape.

Poem: But do you read me? Understand me?

Pen: That’s not fair. You changed the meaning of that phrase!

Poem: See, you read me!

Pen: I did. But even though I read you this time with that phrase doesn’t mean that I read you all the time with every phrase, or your many phrases. Read me?

Poem: You don’t read me?

Pen: Not all the time. It’s difficult to keep up. I have other things to do.

Poem: Well now I need to know how well you read me? When do you read me? When don’t you read me? Am I not interesting enough for you to read all the time? Am I not deep enough? Do I possess enough metaphors or emotion?

Pen: …I read when I can. I’m sorry I can’t do more, but I’ll read you when I can. Read me?

Poem: Read.

The End

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