First starting out

As pure and fresh

Blushing pink

Atop my head

Pin-prick sharp

Chiseled face

No mistakes yet

To erase

Bright and full

Of use within

Better than

A ballpoint pen

The best of friends;

A sharpener

Brings me back

After a whir

Short on words

Becoming dull

Not much left

The season; Fall

Now, whittled down

With no point left

No. 2

No longer deft

The end draws near

Few more words said

I've reached the last

I'm out of lead

I exist solely to serve,

Used as a mere tool

For another's pleasure

Humans grip me,

Holding my short life in their hands

They make their thoughts known,

Striking my lead against the paper,

Repeatedly, without end

When my lead has run dull,

Too light for their letters to shine,

I'm forced into the sharpener,

My life whittled away in golden slivers

And when I'm struggling to survive,

Just inches left to writhe,

They toss me aside,

Like a common piece of garbage

Repeatedly, without end,

This is the fate we suffer,

Destined to be a tool

For a human's use

Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I were something different. A stapler, folder, white-out even, but not a lowly pencil. Then again, if the pen is mightier than the sword, then how much more so is the pencil, with a built in pink nub to remove blemishes on papers, only leaving behind a faint whisper of it’s mistakes.

I'm lucky not to be in the next classroom over. Where the pencils are used for drawing dicks and crude symbols. Instead, I lie in the hands of a master. My life is being pressed out of me, but at least I make something beautiful with it. The life of a true artist, the shades of my graphite creating faces and flowers, brought to life by my death. I'm nearing my last days. I'm the length of the girl's thumb. Soon, I will join my brethren in the trash. But, how bad can it be, right?

Unfamiliar grip

Of ruthless hand, followed by

The painstaking slam

She imbeds her teeth

Ever so deep, leaves behind

Scars that never heal

Yellow and black, thin

Rubber for a brain, erased

All you have written

Charcoal letters drawn

Upon flat white surface lines

That you did not read

Call me number 2

But don’t be alarmed when I

Become your first love…

And I will give of myself, every day.

I will be no immortal; my time will be brief.

But I will be an artist and an intellectual, paid for my labor

in beauty and ideas.

#poetry

You’d think the smaller the hand that holds me, the more pleasant my journey in life would be.

Not so.

I live in a kindergarten classroom, which makes me a #2 right out of the pack. The sharpening process, which involves a death grip around my mid-section and a series of violent plunges into the meat grinder of the lead species, does little to boost my self esteem.

And the scribbling... bless it! It’s neverending around these parts! Those little illiterate, color-outside-the-lines miscreants will see your panic attack in the meat grinder and raise you a heapin’ helping of cardiac arrest as they choke you and make you sprint back and forth across the page.

Sigh... at least it’s the weekend...

Scratching away at the surface

As he’d been born to do

He dragged his head back & forth over her skin

Barely skimming the surface.

“You constantly mark me” she’d said

He’d explained it’s because no matter how he felt at any moment

They were destined to be this way.

Him drawling over her

Expressing his feelings any way he could

Depending on which way he was being pushed.

& she, the blank canvas

On which was displayed his undulating feelings of life.

Sometimes, he felt too blunt

Others like he pressed her too hard

Still others he felt as if he’d draw strength from her whilst he drew her into his world.

But then

That is

The push & pull of most relationships

The shape of their union

But life would never be dull for them

The being, the very fibre of the paper

Who was drawn into a pencil’s life

Equations,

Notes,

Words,

Letters,

Homework,

Sharpener.

Paragraphs,

Reports,

Drawings,

Poems,

Stories,

Sharpener.

Screenplays,

Placements,

Essays,

Doodles,

Sharpener,

Bin.

My life is on repeat,

But with every rewind I grow smaller,

With every use I diminish,

Until I am no longer taller,

I am now the smallest.

I live to be used,

But once I have served my purpose,

I am discarded,

Tossed into the bin,

Disregarded.

Many things can be done with me,

Careers shaped,

Lives changed,

Stories created,

Parties arranged.

My life in your hands,

My lead laying out a silver trail,

Words that change the world,

Large scrolls of lines,

I have unfurled.

You don’t really realize,

That we have significance,

We have meanings,

Pencils have a heart,

Pencils have feelings.

So when you toss me away,

Remember,

We have meanings,

We have emotions,

All pencils have feelings.