Pick It Up!

That,my friend, is a chronic disease.
It starts with being too much in ease.
Is when you feel like not picking up
The pen that just fell on the floor
Because bending and working
Against the gravity is really a task
That you prefer not to partake
And then suddenly
One day
It sets in your bones.
That pen you did not pick
From the floor,
Becomes the pen you used to write
That story you thought you would
Finish,and now you don’t even fight
Against this disease, that you might-
In fact,surely could conquer the world
If you’d just pick up the pen,
If you’d just,
Then maybe you could ace that
Math or whatever test you sat
No,not maybe,but surely,

That bloody pen could have been
The pen you would’ve drawn
That car you’ve been trying to design
For ages, since you started your
Obsession on vehicles,
But tentacles
Of an invisible, slimy Octopus
Grips you and you’re unable to move on,
While you know that pen could have
Saved you from all the abuse,
Tons of twisted truths,
That they fed you,
On and On,

The pen that you could have used to
Say that you’re breaking at the edges,
Your misshapen heart,
It still has not gotten hard,
That she could save it.

That pen had all the answers you
Longed for,
Searched for,
Hoped for.
For the love of God,

Pick it up.
Pick it up.
Pick it up.

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