Placed on the counter and stiff like a rock,
is my number 2 pencil, which no one will mock.
It shines with graphite, wood covered in yellow,
the sight of it just makes me mellow.
Who dare not use this magical wooden stick?
Well no one except for me, that’s it.
Its ferrule intimidates me, shining like gold,
but I just won’t use it, I’m not yet sold.
But then I think of stories, art, and so much more.
Without these things my mind tends to bore.
My pencil gives me words, which I cannot express.
Its grip can be warm, like the summer’s hotness.
But I couldn’t use it, not even a chance.
The pointed tip won’t put me in a trance.
It always breaks when I need it the most,
But there’s a sharpener very, very close.
I procrastinate with art instead of working,
But I couldn’t do work if a pencil wasn’t lurking
This pencil is my ode, I cannot neglect it.
What will I do with it, that is the question?
I could draw the sky; I could sketch the trees.
But those are things I can do with ease.
I could write a story, well thought out and conducted,
but it still isn’t considered very productive.
I could work and work, until the tip burns down.
But something like that would just make me frown.
Maybe it’s not important to think of what to do,
rather just let it happen, with the click of my shoe.
So, with all my might I grab the pencil tight,
And let my mind flow out into the night.