Knock, Knock

Knock, Knock,
My feet are numb.


Knock, Knock,
My hands are frozen.
My mind is wired,
My eyes blurred.


Knock, Knock,
Why doesn't he open?
Why doesn't she answer?
Why doesn't he talk?
Why doesn't she stay?


Knock, Knock,
Or he might not be home,
Or she be talking to he,
Or he on the lands far away,
Where standing on my head
She never looks down but distance.


Knock, Knock,
My eyelids drooping,
My heart halting,
My mind swolen,
My memory
Oh my memory receding,
Those would-bes are leaving.


Disillusioned, I kept knocking on the door I knew would never open.

The Pen

Tired of being useless, weary of lying still waiting for her hand to touch me. Loads of paper beside me, each clean like her heart need me to scratch them. Am I not abound with ink? Yes, I am. So, why is she deferring writing? I have a lot to give, a lot to say, just long for fingers, for her tiny bony fingers to keep me in between, to repose on her graceful skin and revel.
The other day, she wrote Hi by using me and some days later Bye was the word that came out of my mouth and then came her long absence. I have been going through a long silence since then. No change, I have been lying there with the word Bye beneath me, not able to call her, not able to think on my own just have to wait.
I wish I could think; then I would stand up, protest against the blank sheet and express the silence, the agony and how dust has covered me and most importantly, how much I miss the girl. I wish I could think; then I would ask her to hold me in her hands and give me some warmth. But, but if I could think , why would I need Her thought? I would write all on my own. I wouldn't need an author for I would be the author, write the greates stories about a pen and a pencil who fell in a love which lasted short when a naughty boy with dirty hands kept sharpening the pencil, abusing it, and the hero of our story, the Pen, tormented kept losing the water of his blood seeing the pencil getting shorter and shorter, approaching to being Nothing. Oh yes, and this is how their love skidded to a halt; Both, beside each other ended up in a bin over some sqeezed sheets of paper which were testimony to the love they had made on them, to the memory they had written on them.
"I wish I could think,
"But oh, you can't imagine how I miss her touch,
"But then with thought I could be independent,
"I wish...
"But...
...

The Hero of our story lay there, no girl turned up, days went on, dust buried him, yet again there was no change until one day a man of old age with rough hands covered with partched skin showed up, picked our hero up and tried to write something but couldn't, except for a very uneven seperate " !_ " for the Pen was almost dry. And no need to say that, then he dumped our hero in an empty bin under the desk.