I am a pencil
a tool for the poet,
just a number # 2 yellow,
but quite brave when I'm lead,
across ground up pulp
of some trees long since vanished
poetry's oft created
as I crumble my graphite
into grey scattered thoughts
sacrificing my points
for the viewpoints of others
till I'm sharper again
in the grinding machine
which gives me quite a leadache
but it's what I was made for,
and mistakes are no problem
I just bend my pink nub,
turning them into shreds
brushed away in an instant
"Eberhard" I can soften
clumsy words into brilliance
longings into love poems,
sadness into release
a good friend to your muse
if you let your thoughts channel
to the grip of your fingers,
down through my wooden stylus,
to be scribbled on paper,
captured there for all ages,
all for 59 cents,
pick me up and dance with me,
over loose leaf we'll quick step,
like great poets before you,
leaping to great conclusions
that move souls to our song.
