My pen collection is alive
each member a witness
to some specific moment
of sub-conscious kleptomania
they live inside an Ikea desk tidy
manufactured from the well-treated wood
of recycled trees
or did I read the label wrong
they share their space
with wall pins
paper clips and empty tissue packs
and a proud array of fast food menus
some stand alert
some fall against the walls
and others hide their heads from view
lost at the bottom of the box
with the pencil stubs
and the ink blots
and the dust
and I'm sure they have something to teach me
about myself
or life
or the things I'm yet to discover about myself
or the things
I just can't remember
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem