Building My Tiny Pencil Collection (A Poem)
Too small to handle and resharpen with a knife. Not even my pencil extender can extend its life. Out of the fresh cardboard box it’s born. Once its usefulness is gone, into the retirement box it mourns.
Sometimes they come out to erase their son’s and daughter’s mistakes. Or get thrown into forests, deserts, mountains, and lakes. It’s the cycle of a pencil’s life that never ends. Acts like a bridge to your mind and hand, never bends.
Why am I writing about tiny pencils, I have some writing to do. Forget this stupid poem, this post is doo-doo!