The Troubles of a Pen-less Reader

A short poem that spawned out of irritation at the time of study:

Ink stains smear shapes on my hands.

A now crooked tip flows

black, the free impressions of my insertions

in the pages and exertions of the French theologian.

I wonder:

should I stop?

Without the cognitive entrance,

my efforts dwindle in the exposition.

“Engage.” Brain tells Hand.

But it complains regarding Pen

“Its dulled and dry” –

repeating alibi.

“That soothes no frustration of mine.”

Calvin beckons my assail.

His cogitations not yet mine,

until the paper meets pen –

the manifest conclusion of mind.

No writer would approve this passivity.

Edwards on his mare,

the flapping paper, up and down,

mocks my easy subjugation.

How quick I yield to the pest –

the point, drifting, the alteration.

But what is a student to do?


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