All the Pens I Own

All the Pens I own

I save the tins from instant coffee to put my pencils inSo that everything smells slightly roastyAnd sets my head spinning when I sit down to write

Testing out all the pens I ownTurns out I’ve got loads

And lots of the pens have dried up or run outAnd loads of the pencils are broken, worn down to a nubOr have their spines cracked all the way through inside

I pick out my coloured pencils in every delicate shade And all my strident, neon felt tip pensMy pencils of the softest lead2B and only 2B

I spend a good long hour or more sharpening everythingThat comes to hand. It feels importantBecause I’m waiting

Waiting for news of all kindsMaybe for news that will never come

Times like these can get you downBecause they make writing seem like a thingThat you don’t do for yourselfAnd you don’t do for your worldful of readersWherever they areWhoever they might be

These times make it seem like writing is a worldWhere you answer to people who maybe don’t really careOr aren’t even there

You’re waiting for the go-ahead, the permissionThe great elusive green lightYou’re waiting for the

‘Yes! We want it!We love it! We won’t let anything stand in our way!We want to give this proudly to the world at largeWe’ll be proud to buy this from youAnd show it to everyone…’

The best thing you can do at times like theseWaiting and waiting and pushing all this stuff from your mindIs to go through your pots of pensAnd all your coffee tins of delicious pencilsAnd twist them and curl them into perfect sharpnessGet yourself ready

This is a terrible time for sitting Alert for news

It’s a time for dreaming with all your pens outDraw some long crazy outlinesAnd colour them in with every pencil From your Lakeland tin

And yesMake sure you go over all the edgesAnd yesForget about staying in the lines.