Can you tell me, dear pen, as I hold you in my hand.
Are you capable of taking me to a long forgotten land?
A cylindrical piece of plastic protecting a tube of ink,
or are you something greater, free to feel and think?
Should I do more with your unrelenting marks?
Tell the tales of warriors or monsters in the dark?
Some believe that you are mightier than a sword,
but I still mindlessly fiddle with you in the times that I am bored.
What are the possibilities? Are there infinite or none?
Should I treat you as what you seem or as a loaded gun?
My internal conversations have gone on for longer than I’d planned, My moral dilemma continues, as I hold you in my hand.