Sharpening Poem by Daniel Y.

A lead mark from pencil sharp
did scar the wooden face.
The sharp’ner quick
did sheer the sheep
and spoiled foils of lace.

The sliver-dust of forest musk
settled on the ocean floor.
I pulled it out, to fill my doubt,
it ate the center core!
Now, I must sharpen all the more.
And sharpen all the more.

The tool is steeled,
the journal yield.
The written hand in throes,
emerged from the meat grinder,
feeling like a headless trout.

The fine twitch
deadbolted still,
the thoughts itch,
inside the quill.
But the meaning clearly
pointed out.