The Pen

The pen calls to me. It whispers my name, taunting me to pick it up and begin to write. What, though? The pen is not specific. As the pen glides across the paper, the flow of the ink entices me, yet I have nothing to make it continue. I do not know what the pen wants, nor do I know what it holds for me. The promise of language? The skill of writing? The beauty of poetry? It whispers these things to me, yet, like a child playing a mean game of hide-n-seek, it keeps moving to a new hiding place. Just as I get a little closer to it, just when I feel like I know exactly where I am going and what I am doing, I find it to be gone, huddled in yet another unknown corner.