Poem #1

Ode to Graphite

Inside pencils,

On paper.

  They wait, black and silver, like metal.

Pretty, but full of dents,

Of marks.

The surface, silk.

But still useful.

There is one scrape,

Where it broke, under too much pressure.

I try to erase the marks.

Some are hard to erase,

   Like bad mistakes.

                              Drawing, writing,

                                  The words stutter and fade,

                                       like a horrible storyteller.

      I sigh, letting the pencil fall.

              

                In front of me is a paper

                    Filled with markings.

Meaningless.