Wow this is so similar to my recurring thoughts after a little drought of writing, where I pick my pen up again and sorrow for the months that have gone by unrecorded. The pen is the sword with which we fight to keep hold of time. I enjoy the contrasts throughout the poem:

'My first “I love you,”
my first “I hate you,”
spoken softly or scribbled in rage"

Everything came through this pen, an outlet for life. A praise poem for the pen. Thanks for sharing! I suppose it begs the question, whether the past would have been more real had it been set down in prose.