Every Broken Pen

I’ll write till all the pens run dry

Till all the paper has run out

Till my boney fingers no longer work

From then on i'll just shout

My palm and wrist in constant ache

Fingers stained with ink and lead

Endless scribbles on paper scraps

Soft hands, now rough instead

Pages filled with thoughts and ideas

All part of my beautiful mind

Stories told and dreams conveyed

With every pen i find

But when my pen no longer works

Someone will hear me cry

And then i'll ask them nicely 

Will you be my scribe?