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Jan 24, 2012

Autobiography of Pen Essay for School Class 1 to 7

 By Akbar:
Writing Autobiography of a pen essay. One thing you have to realise that you have to imagine yourself as a pen. Now what someone do with pen ,just explain those. Read below.

I stood in the darkest corner of his  room, alone, with no one to talk to or even write to. And there he was with his new friend, unaware of my dejected feelings and hopeless state. But I have never imagined life like it.


I was a pen, blue and shiny but had always written in natural black. I was the gift from his dad on his fourteenth birthday. He used to be fond of me and used to take me everywhere, through people, places and events . I had travelled so much, through pages and pages of the feelings that lay inside his, through his writing. He used to call me his “Lucky Pen”.

But one day, I remember his writing  ,writing harsh on the roughest paper I had experienced. He was crying and I could feel his tears on me. It was sad to know that He had lost his dad because I knew she loved him the most. But then, the most horrible thing happened when He accidentally put me down and dented my nib. That hurt! “Oh No!” he wept and cried even more. I wanted to console his, write “I’m OK! Really!” on the sheet of paper he had in front of his. But Alas I couldn’t because even though they call us mightier than the sword, neither can we stand on our own nor can we express what we feel. We can articulate what our owners feel or what they want but not about our own selves. So that was the last of his I had known! That was the last of Us!

I enjoyed running over the soft and smooth pages of his diary, telling about all what he felt … made me cry sometimes, reading what he wrote. And that’s why I bled, and he went berserk at that because bleed is what good pens aren’t supposed to do, only if she understood why I bled!

I loved being with him. “Lucky Pen” he used to call me and I was proud of that status.

I am on the wait now for his to pick me up and give me some exercise. I miss reading into his mind. I miss being the first person to know what he felt. I miss his. He never even comes to me these days. I see his fingers flying over the black and white keys with his eyes fixed on the white flickering screen. I see they are his friends now and I am neglected. Although they print well what he says and thinks but they will never smell his hand nor will ever see his beautiful handwriting. They will never bleed for him nor will they think or cry for him.
I stay in his pen stand, waiting to be taken in his fingers again, drink in ink once more and spill it all out for him … but I guess I will have to stay like this and wait in vain for the rest of my life!
image or picture of pen

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