Rusted corners

Of milky white

Paper clips

Hold on

To sharp cuts

Of jagged edges

Of loose leaf.

Blue lines of silk

Command me to

Show the world.

But my

Pen is contorted

And stains ink

All over the

Smooth surface

The desk

overlooking a window,

Overlooking a 

Fire truck

whizzing by into

It's station.

I sit here

And remember when

I used to

Play with toy

Fire trucks

Just like

When I used

To think I

Would become a

Freedom writer or

A cartoonist or

Dentist or an

Astronaut or 

State governor or

A Jedi or

A jaguar or

Everything.

But I

Sit here and

Wonder why I

Stain trees with

My pen.