The Pencil Poem by Steve Woodward

Waiting for you; I am a brand new pencil
Neat in a box amongst my brothers
Standing diligent to attention;
Picked from the pack and at your mercy,
Thrust forth to the page.
In the beginning I am sharp, like wit
My freshly shaved scent arouses you
To the myriad of possibilities of the plain white sheets laid before us.

Take me in your hand, lead me to your room and keep me there –
A prisoner of your drawers
Together we could write a story
So full of promise or of pain
Draw a one minute masterpiece in the margin,
Next to the names of your lovers lost
Scrawled and crossed
Done right like sums.

And so through use and time I dull,
I must be sharpened again.
Never quite the same
A little beaten, a little shorter, bitten and bruised
Though ever still familiar to your changing hands
At my feet there is an eraser
To wipe out the past mistakes
The footprints we left along the wrong paths
The times best forgotten
Just whispers on a page – rewritten stories – never perfect.

When I am no longer of use,
No longer new, no longer sharp
But dull and chewed from a lifetime of use
Look back on the stories we have written together
On the marks we left on the world. Smile.