My hand aches as I write

My mind breaks as I cite

Only one will know

What truly will flow

From its body, mind, and soul

The carved grain shows pain

Of this great tree now slain

Of its hexagonal shape

And orange coated cape

With nothing insipid nor droll

This leadened core is wearing thin

Nearly sharp as needle pin

But friction more, wears it down

Do not worry, do not frown

For it will only become sharp again

To write or literature or to draw for art

This wondrous tool works every part

But beauty comes to behold

This wondrous tool that I hold

That is so much mightier than the pen