The pens vary green, red, purple, blue and black.
The pens all in my knapsack.
I've collected these pens as I've grown through the years.
The pens that remind me of my seven-hundred drops of tears.
The pens that have changed, as I've transformed along the way.
Some of those pens, they've run out of ink.
Like some friendships and relationships, the pens not as strong as we think.
Some of those pens, no longer have caps.
Much like the pens, your patience has run thin, so lately you stray from conventional ways of thinking.
You've thrown off your cap, much like the pen. The restriction too much for you to bear with.
You no longer live in the box you started, instead, you live with others you can relate with and understand.
Sometimes like a pen, you fall on the floor, get lost and confused until you find a new owner.
Much like a pen we all are different, some more colorful, some straighter, some fluffier, some curvier.
We know that pens, have one thing in a common. The pen does not write the story, instead, it's the writer.
Too many of us sit around like the pen, waiting for someone to come around and us again.
Used in love, used in future endeavors, used to fill someone else's agenda.
Used for companionship, used for happiness, used to make everyone else feel better.
We are not pens, we are musicians, writers, dancers, and statisticians. We are creators, not to be used. We must mold our own story. We must create our own songs. We must be writers not pens, but specifically in our own stories.
Jasmine writes to explains how important it is to trust your gut, despite the temptation to ignore the voice in one’s head and take the easy way out.