My Pencil
By Ned T
[not published yet]
Worn to my hand
is my pencil
My key
imagination
My unspeaking friend
Torn and bitten
a decaying log
A tool to carry imagination
unlimited
My haven
My fort of safety
From the cruel reality of life
A wooden treasure
Tipped with rubber
It smells of my sweat
Damp wood
And blood from
A old paper cut
My pencil
My unspeaking friend