I had been sauntering
along the edges of a hilltop
seeking the unproclaimed truth.
It had been a long journey for me.
Me, a human, veiled with the lies of society—
I struggled to make it to the top—the city upon the hill that I oh so desperately wanted to see.
have been the essence of my sub-conscience.
I yearned to escape
the subtle quagmire of this world.
I decided that I wouldn’t drown in this filth.
In the plight for security and honesty,
I discovered the pristine truth of a pencil.
My pencil wrote to the world a message
A message about the truth.
My pencil is my unending story,
the eyes to my occasionally blind head,
the ears to my unforeseen deafness.
My pencil had led me on a path
to search for candor
And with my pencil I wrote what I needed to say.
I wrote poems that I needed to articulate,
lines of stanzas, each with messages about my world.
Each line are the tears and blood of my hard work,
the vision of my eyes,
the voice of my throat.
I loved every line, every word.
But others tried to defy their worth.
Grimacing at the sight of my words, they said
“the truth is worthless in this hard world”
They took my papers away and devoured my thoughts.
Burnt my soul.
Yet I said, “no my poems are worth more that what I am told”
I ran away searching for the city upon a hill.
I climbed mountaintops in search of a better world.
But soon I realized I had found the city after all,
it was present within the lines of my poems.
My lovely poems brought me to my salvation.
My pencil, these lovely poems, are my home.