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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