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A ballpoint pen, also known as a "biro and 

"ball pen", is a pen that dispenses ink over 

a metal ball at its point, i.e. over a "ball 

point". The metal commonly used is steel, 

brass or tungsten carbide. It was 

conceived and developed as a cleaner and 

more reliable alternative to quill and 

fountain pens and is now the world's 

most-used writing instrumen

 A   ballpoint   pen,   also   known   as a "biro 

"and   "ball   pen" , is   a   pen   that  

dispenses ink   over   a   metal   ball   at   its  

point,   i.e. over   a   "ball   point".   The  

metal   commonly used   is   steel,   brass   or  

tungsten carbide.    It   was   conceived   and   

developed    as    a cleaner   and    more  

reliable    alternative       to    quill    and   

fountain    pens    and   is   now the    world's   

most   -used    writing instrumen.

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!

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