My pen

My pen
Doesn’t move the way yours does.
An envious glance over my shoulder and
I see the ink flow freely from your fingertips,
Seep outside the xerox border, abandoning any care as you
blur the newly-inked colors together into an ugly gray. But you don’t mind.

When I tried, the paper matted and tore
Where the point got caught,
And it ruined
My work.

For the pen I hold is frozen, thawing,
Color fearfully seeping out.
But I let the time pass for it to flow
More and more, into the grain of the paper,
Like little rivers of green forever multiplying
Past the bold, black line,
The stop sign.

There,
I did it.
But I don’t like it now.
Now all I want to do is take the black and cover up that green river
As though never having flowed.

I am more aware of my breath, as I am left with the work of art that never happened.

How do you let it
Become what it is?

What I saw on your paper.