The blue pen scribbles across the paper
Something usually a boredom breaker
The ink of thoughts and feelings
Sitting on the chair back home every evening
Behind those stares of walls from a yard
Trying to look into the paper so hard
The hands are freezing with the chills
Yet passionate heart is full of thrills
The grey skies of December and the cold
Things are not easy to unfold
It is a pen though writes only in blue
Something which I find is true
It is a means of expression
Writing is literally my obsession
It is indeed my blue pen
Push me to write every now and then
A pen is mightier than a sword
Only if we carefully choose our words.
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