The Pencil

I first picked up the pencil when I was ten

It was grey, dull, and insignificant

The writing seemed to fall off the paper

And the words held no significance


I held the pencil once again when I was eleven

However, it still remained a shallow tedious instrument

My mind would not sync with its intriguing creativity

Writing was yet to become a personal testament


I grasped my pencil once more when I was twelve

And this time, it bloomed with color and iridescence

The words sticked to the paper like glue

Writing became part of my conscience


At thirteen, the words began to rhyme

Forming elaborate yet premature sonnets

I prayed for the pencil to share more of its secrets and wisdom

But it remained silent with a sense of promise


Fourteen and naive, I believed I was a poet

Edgar Allen Poe was no one next to me

Then my pencil erased everything I have ever known

And writing lost its sensuaity


Fifteen and frightened, I contemplated what went wrong

I gazed at the pencil and paper for hours hoping for a response

Then I heard whispering words of wisdom in my ear

And I was deterined to appropriately respond


At sixteen, I understood what I needed to become a true poet

Creativity, originality, and imagination were the key

I must appreciate the bond between the pencil and I

For the pencil is what empowers me


Seventeen and strong-willed, I pushed forward with admiration

For the relation of man and pencil must be tenacious

One without the other loses its purpose

And I was honored to have been shared this revelation


I'm still holding my pencil tight at eighteen

The chromaticity surprises me with something new each day

My mind has become one with the pencil's creativity

Writing and I will never break away

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