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Ode to a pencil
Yellow and wooden
plump pink eraser slightly rubbed and smudged with gray.
Layers of light brown wood peeled off of the tip.
A chunk of soft black graphite pokes itself up and shines dully in the light.
A layer of paint is evenly spread.
Dented and scratched
nibbled on from anxiety and impatience leaving indentations of molars in its soft wooden body.
Twirls in fingers, having the potential energy and power to write down any thought any idea, any image, picture,
create any world.
The soft black graphite comes in contact with white crisp paper scratching little gray marks revealing what was once in the mind and laying it before all eyes to see.
Concrete evidence of our existence proving we were here, recording all of out fears and loves and hates sometimes determining our fates as we sit in little crammed desks and make sure we completely fill in the bubble.
It rests in soft spongy pockets between thumb and index finger excited to leak out the secrets of man kind.
That is — Until too much pressure is exerted on the tiny tip of brittle graphite
and it snaps.
There’s no pencil sharpener in sight.
— Dana Crooks