An Ode To My Pencil

My brownish-yellow pencil,

dances across

the page.

Words blossoming

 from it’s sharp stone tip.

My pencil,

a mirror

of my adoration ,

of poems,

of writing,

of literature.

Pencil in hand,

attacking assignments

 is less tedious.

Pencil in hand

creativity flows,

like a facet without a handle

to hinder it.

With my pencil

in hand,

great battles are won,

a lover’s heart splits,

new evils enter this world,

perfect worlds are invaded,

a girl finds love.

Oh,

my pencil,

with your chewed eraser holder,

you remind me

 of frustration,

your pink eraser,

once crisp and neat,a worn down stub

of corrected mistakes.

You are so little,

in this world of greatness,

yet you,are the enabler,

of poets,

 of authors

 of play writes

of tragedy

 of mayhem

 of suffering

 of love at first sight

of diabolical schemes to rule the world

of one small child’s dream.

oh, pencil,

sweet pencil

 you are so much more

 than that sliver of wood,

with a thin stone in the middle,

 used for marks,

 and yet,

 that’s all you’re credited for.