When I write, I interchange pen and pain

Not even realizing I have done so

And then looking upon the inscribed note

Puzzled, expecting the paper to explain.

Though I feel an answer I have obtained

To the myriad scribbles that I wrote.

And though the answer puts me in the know

More or less, 'stead of happy, I am shamed.

For my muse bothers me not whilst I smile

It is when I sulk I pick up my quill.

I aspire to view my past pages

As one who speaks in terms that are blissful.

Can I dismiss it as simply my style?

Nay, for the pen and pain has made me cruel

October 9, 2006