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