If my pen could sing,
it would sing
of his petty rivalry with it,
of its leaks and wobbly strokes,
meanwhile, it'll touch
on how thicker its ink is.
It may brush upon its dry words on love,
oh yes! it'd screech at top
of words it penned
that I denied the chance to dry.
And of course, it'd behave a narcissist
humming on and on about
its proud walk against time!
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