I remember that first day,
Feeling somehow more grown up,
That in the space of a day
I had aged exponentially.
I was putting away childish things,
Having to live with the mistakes I made,Indelible and forever mine,
Scrawled by still small hands.
This was the day I was trusted
To hold my future in my hands,To make my mark permanently
On a world that saw me as a child.
No longer at the mercy of broken pencils
And no longer forced to erase my errors;I was now the proud and grown up owner
Of the most wonderful gift I had received.
In my hot little hand I held,
Ready to write the speaches and songsThat would move the world to tears,
The first of many pens I would own.
Whether the cheap and nasty variety
Or the expensive and carefully crafted,Each would bear the expression
Of a mind finely tuned by experience.
Though the ink may occassionally run dry,
The imagination never would.The scripts of a thousand days
Would ebb and flow in my viens;
Still, the writing would continue to flow,
Though I again would graduateTo a medium sometimes shallow and cold,
And I would never forget that old feeling …
Or that old friend of mine.
