My Pen

(First ever attempt at free verse. August '06. Tell me what you think.)

I haven't been writing lately.
No, I've been writing but I don't like it.
I can't finish it.
I can't finish it.

You liked my hands, you told me.
You said they were beautiful.
I believed you. I wanted to.
But my hands are shaking now.

I've been trying to write my songs lately.
You said you liked my voice.
So I try to sing. Do you hear it?
No melody comes to mind right now.
No.
Melody.
The words don't fit, they can't, I can't.
Fit in this reality.

I tried again, maybe tried too much,
So now it's overdone.
But I still don't like it.
Don't want to like it.
My words, my song are bland.
You're not holding my hands.
They are empty.
They are cold.
They are shaking…

I force myself, I beg and twist,
I held the pen too tight.
I broke it. I broke it
Now it won't write.

My hands are stained now.
And they shake as they reach for it.
The pen you gave me.
Before you went away.

I still can't write lately.
Not even to you.