The Pencil Poem by Paul Morabito

Poetic Delusions Book 1

The Pencil.

This instrument in hand.
Which written words were read.
The sharp pointed spear.
Of number two lead.

Can be uniform or reckless.
With no style to adhere.
It can be loving or hateful.
To the novice ear.

Gliding smoothly on impulse.
With no thought to reckon.
It calls me.
It tempts me.
It reaches and beckons.

For this is the tool of my trade.
Portrayed as a delicate flower.
Or the sharp edge of a poison tainted blade.

It's played like a puppet.
Commanded by master's hand.
Creating life from nothingness.
Like first notes sounded from a one man band.

In twisted lies or honest truths.
The web is spun.
Opening new doors and pathways.
In journeys just begun.

Though inanimate.
Breathless.
Made of deadened wood.
I can be pulled for wicked evil.
Or pushed for righteous good.

Without fail I'm edited.
Criticized.
Reviewed.
With glorious praise I'm lifted.
Torn apart.
Subdued.

When withered I'm sharpened.
To increase my skills.
Taken for granted.
To do as master wills.

Misspells and errors.
I'm forced to embrace.
Wanting to be flipped over.
Erased.
So not disgraced.

I'm innocent I tell you.
Not to be blamed.
Tis not I that's guilty.
But the author ashamed.