The Poetry of a Poetriless Pencil
The Pencil does his duty, day by day,
Sometimes, ignored by his master yet…
He waits…
And waits some more…
I have not forgotten you, my faithful Tool
I merely have no ideas…
Nothing to use my sword on…
My hands lie useless
, unable to move,
My Pencil, My Sword, My Words, My Ideas
They flow forth then,
.Cease.
The tip of my pencil has broken, and I cannot find my sharpener.
Where did I leave my whetstone?
Someone, anyone! tell me?
Must I find it myself?
I go forth to war each day, but my Sword is broken.
I must re-forge the Pencil!
How do I re-forge this peerless weapon?
What quest must I accomplish?
(Did you know it was built from the power of dragons?
Perhaps,
The dragons were built by the pencil.)
Ah, Inspiration!
I feel it rising now,
The might of words rages in me.
Oh, the fire!
The passion!
It wishes to fuel my sword
Yet again, I will set men ablaze with my weapon!
But the Pencil must be re-forged ‘fore I charge into the battle once again.
I sit down and reach out
The fire in me drives my hands forward,
No longer motionless,
Gently, my fingers take the Sword and hold it firmly,
I draw it out of the stone… Then…
Once again burn Words into pages,
The Power has returned!
