Suppose someone gave you a pen-
a sealed, solid-colored pen.
You couldn't see
how much ink it had.
It might run dry
after the first few tentative words
or last just long enough
to create a masterpiece(or several)
that would last forever
and make a difference
in the scheme of things.
You don't know before you begin.
Under the rules of the game,
you really never know.
You have to take a chance!
Actually, no rule of the game
states you must do anything.
Instead of picking up and using the pen,
you could leave it on a shelf
or in a drawer where it will dry up unused.
But if you do decide to use it,
what would you do with it?
How would you play the game?
Would you plan and plan
before you ever wrote a word?
Would your plans be so extensive
that you never even got to the writing?
Or would you take the pen in hand,
plunge right in and just do it,
struggling to keep up with the twists and turns
of the torrents of words
that take you where they take you?
Would you write cautiously and carefully,
as if the pen might run dry the next moment,
or would you pretend or believe
(or pretend to believe)
that the pen will write forever
and proceed accordingly?
And of what would you write:
Of love? Hate? Fun? Misery?
Life? Death? Nothing? Everything?
Would you write to please just yourself?
Or yourself by writing for others?
Would your strokes be tremblingly timid
or brilliantly bold?
Fancy with a flourish or plain?
Would you even write?
Once you have the pen,
no rule says you have to write.
Would you sketch?
Scribble? Doodle or draw?
Would you stay in or on the lines,
or see no lines at all,
even if they were there?
Or are they?
There's a lot to think about here,
suppose someone gave you a life…