The wise quill.

I pen down my sorrows,
which dwell amidst the burrows,
Slowly and keenly, do I move the quill,
a little ink on the paper does it spill,
And a tale of my life I try to stitch,
but my quill, every time, would glitch,
I enquire, "What's the matter?"
It hesitates, and states, " 'tis the fetter",
Bewildered, I stare at it,
And like a whisper, a secret it'd utter,
"Thy heart thou tryest to put on this sheet;
Hath this act already not left thou with defeat?
A promise thou shalt make to me,
Guard thy heart, or this heart wilt flee,
The fetter shalt protect it,
Off it goes and thou shalt regret it.",
An instant it took to ingest the truth,
better the bitter now, than later to ruth it,
Taken aback, but also bewitched,
I jotted the wisdom of quill,
and drank the rum of my afflict.