This is not my pen.
Not the tool of crap
That shows no talent.

This is the weapon
Shakespeare was proud of.
It has written (with it's hand)
Tales deep and full,
Poetry I will never write,
Stories I will never tell.

This is Matthew's pen,
The pen of talent.
Ink about to be 'spilled'
With care and feeling.

This is a pen, nay, The Pen
Which will discover new lines
And bitter-sweet secrets.
It will knock on the door of truth
And be let in.

And my pen, though fancier:
Bears no match
Has no talent
Holds no secrets
Tells no truths.

In short, it's just a pen.