The Life of a Pencil

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