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