The table lies in disarray,
silence clings to the unruly mess.
The pencil whispers to the pen,
"I can't live under this amount of stress,"
"I remember when I was creative,
when every curve meant so much."
"Now I drag on with on feeling,
falling hopelessly out of touch."
"You're lucky my silent friend,
sometimes I wish I could run dry."
To this, and ever after,
the pen offered no reply.
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