Pencils that are as tall as trees
Whose sharpened ends are hammered into the earth
And encircle you in a cage of wooden pencils
Within an open field you sit
A huge pencil case is your only comfort
And as you tuck yourself in
With only the raw elements for company
The grey skies above begin to rumble
As you burn your writing paper to keep you warm
You write with a leaking pen on the A4 sheets
Your poems used to spark a flame
And as the first drops of rain ruin your work
And puts out your raging inferno
You call upon the birds above
And tell them to sing your poems at the break of dawn
And for them to remind you of your work
When finally you're realised from your writers' block.
