Pencil Lead

I write in all places, including my bed,

Fingers crisscrossed in lines where I have bled.

My blood becomes wine to the paper- my bread,

And I lose myself to a world where there is no dread.

Unless, I so choose to re-light a fire I fed

Fears and shadows that others have fled,

Others named Alice and Jenny and Fred.

Darkness and light each spilling from my head,

The dark, dark images heavy like lead,

And the pure white voices to which have led

My sure and steady hand to write thoughts to be read.

The emotions and feelings turn blanched faces to red,

"Though it is not always in fear or weakness," I have once said

As I paint a verbal picture of an old wooden shed

That when opened the third eye of perception is shred

And one could see Santa and his bright colored sled

Fly over the powerlines and chimneys to spread

To young girls and boys a stuffed bear named Ted

With shiny black nose and button eyes held by thread.

I take black ink and white paper and with them I wed

The twenty-six letters from "A" to "Zed",

And feed them life in the form of brown bread

With a piece of my soul on the top like cheese spread

All under a roof of my thoughts built on walls brick red.

They'll speak words of the unread, unsaid, mislead, widespread,

Words that will smolder and burn, like fire from the Dragon's head.

But words that are mine, only mine, from pencil lead,

That's why I write in all places, including my bed.