This pen trys to write,
From a hand that weilds nomore.
Down to its very bones,
Now rotten and aching to its core.
It struggles in vain,
To stay within its grasp.
But just like an old memorey,
Soon its hold will lapse.
This pen will have to find another,
My hand has reached its end.
I hope this pen finds another,
And maybe there a new poem can begin