Pencil

I've always wanted to write, one way or another. First an author, then a poet, a singer, a journalist, and now an author again. Yet here I am, on my fifth poem today. It's kind of ironic, isn't it? Everything in my life can fall apart, As it has, several times over, Leaving me scrambling to glue the right pieces together, But writing always stays. Why? When I watch my whole life go up in flames, standing beside it with a gas can, Why is it that there is always a pencil clutched in my hands? Is it the whole reason that I'm still even sane? I don't know anymore. Ever since I moved, for nearly 9 years, I've been writing. Why is it the only thing worthwhile that I've ever done? I wasted my time before, moving from relationship to relationship, Trying to find something that will last. But the one thing that has is my words. Why? Why write? I can't tell. No one ever listened when I talked about my feelings. No one. So I stopped talking about them. I put on a mask to hide them. That mask became a part of me, To the point where I wonder sometimes, If I even have emotions, or if the mask eventually became my real face. And yet, I know I must have feelings. Unless I'm lying to myself when I write. Why do I only feel these things with this pencil? I want to hate it. Hate the pencil. Hate my words. Hate myself. But I can't. Because it's all I've ever had.