The Write Choice.


The Write Choice.


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.

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 become love poems,
sadness 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 .29 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 songs.

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