Confessions of a Compulsive Pen Hoarder

I have admitted it,
The title alone it stands out, reads
my conviction here in this court
of Poetic confessionals.

I have a top pocket in my shirt
and everytime I see a pen that
has no clear owner, it is gone.
There is no cure for this, pencils too
Are at my mercy.  But I see myself
not as a captor, but as a liberator.
These pens
Can run free in my drawer
Until they die up.

Although not a preferer of particular shades,
I will steal black gel pens or pens
That give my writing a classic scrawl.
I don’t like biros as they carve
Your sentence in to the paper,
where the gel pens touch
The paper like a lovers tongue.

My tongue is stained black
My heart is dyed blue
And only an Inkoholics
Anonymous can save me now.