The Pen's Plea to the Lazy Poet

I'm actually surprised
My ink has not run dry
Yet. That's not a threat,
just a warning.

So long unused, here
left on the desk, or in the drawer
along with every book left unread.

What words are left unsaid!
What thoughts that should be placed
upon the page...
I think.
Do you?

Still think, I mean.

For what pain have I ever caused?
Or wrong I have ever done,
that I should be ignored?
Left to the side at the cost of every
flickering screen,
crooked neck,
sore wrist,
callused thumb,
sleepless night
that goes by without a poem.

Or is the wordhoard emptied?
Is there nothing left you have to say?
What would she think?
What would He think?

I long for the touch of your hand,
the work of your mind once more.
Will you pass me by again?
See how the blank paper cries.

Has your wit run dry?
I still have ink.