I, a pencil writing with deep passion and expression,
Flakes of lead peeling off and imperceptibly floating down,
Like the sudden tearing of a sealed envelope,
The saliva traces of my master’s mouth softens my head but I palpitate in disgust,
The drumming of his fingertips so vivid and so loud,
The chewed bite marks distorting my body,
Paralyzing me from my dear senses.
The efforts and hard work I deliver are not acknowledged or appreciated,
The atrocity of the reality feels like your virginity simply snatched away from the rightful owner,
I, a pencil is considered as a worthless product,
I, a pencil isn’t worthy of people’s standards,
But I know,
I indeed am the real author of all those best-sellers,
Me, myself, I.
When I write I feel a sensation of exhilarating excitement; so intense and vehement,
Feel like a silkworm knitting a work of art on a crisp autumn leaf,
A cluster of fingers wrapped around my slim shape stealing all the credit,
A shape so perfect and a pencil so talented like me at least deserves gratitude,
When the masterpiece is complete a smile etched on his face,
A smile so crooked replicates another one of his success stories,
Rubbing me out of the spotlight completely.
The only friend I have is the paper,
So flat, so innocent,
My personal handkerchief,
Frothy milky white with sprinkles of black ink oozing out of my teary eyes,
I, a pencil so useless and cold,
I, a pencil so plain and lifeless,
I, a pencil replaced by technology and lacking of love,
I, a pencil simply forgotten.