My Pen

My pen slumbers, lying prone
upon the virgin page.
I do not begrudge it rest;
it has earned it.
Harnessed to the yoke of my mind,
it has plowed many furrows
on this white field,
since first the sun
made light of night, this day.

It has taken the praise and abuse
with equal resignation.
It has seen some of its
hardest work, scorned
and cast into the fires of derision.

The desk lamp, sends a sheen
the length of it's slim tapered body.
The silver arrow, that is its hook,
points to me - at me, telling me;
one of us is a writer,
the other wants too be!