My Life as a Flair Pen

I am flying like a green rocket
through the air
and across the page.

I am smooth and matte but bisected,
composed of hard plastic
and alcohol-soaked felt.

I am from a far-away island,
bombed and occupied and
then reconstructed.

I am forgotten in the bottom of bags
and wedged under car mats
but nowhere to be found.

I am lush yet practical and cathartic,
birthing irregular circles that sprawl across whitespace,
delivering well-intentioned commentary on nascent thoughts,
bearing stream of consciousness upon the page before sleep.