The pencil 
It lands on the paper, waiting.
Waiting for the race to begin; waiting for the picture in its mind to bleed onto the canvas
Waiting for it to be caught up by a storm of motivation
Waiting to splash its colorful ideas and present it to the world
As it gathers its ideas; its engine revving in rage, howling for it to advance...
Then the pencil goes without fail
It goes quick and reckless, sprinting with all its might
Its tip scraping along the canvas, creating art on its trail
It keeps switching directions: Left, right, left, right
The sound may be microscopic, but you can still hear the pencil’s tip trudge on
sh sh sh sh!
The eraser, not as silent as the tip, eradicates the mistakes of the pencil
All the thoughts, 
All the ideas in the pencil’s mind straining, fighting their way onto the canvas,
Wanting to stand out and make the world listen,
Listen and yell out its opinion, its point of view to the people
Wanting to stand out and make the world listen,
Trying to become different and distinct themselves from the rest of the ideas,
Wanting to stand out and make the world listen
The pencil slows to a stroll,
Winning the race and now going on a leisurely victory lap
With the last ounces of energy, 
It shades in splotches here and there, making the picture pop out
With these details, the picture becomes less like a blueprint,
and more like Art


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