My right hand man, the pen.
Because I can't write with my left.
You glide across the paper,
Going where I tell you to go.
You stay upon the paper when I leave,
Knowing I'll be back to direct you again.
Or you sleep right beside me,
In case I have an outbreak of an idea.
Yet, you help me in some way.
Your ink runs ideas in my head.
Victoriously driving me insane,
Because I don't know what to put instead.
Sometimes you leave me,
And don't tell me where you are.
Because you don't know where you put yourself.
That's okay.
You're a special kind of pen.
And the next one that finds you,
Will know the ideas of you...
My Right Hand Pen.
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