Born of a pencil,
And escaping my mind,
These scrawling a and scribblings
Are more than just lines.

Inside a utensil,
There’s not just lead or black ink.
It goes far beyond that;
It’s more than you think.

Once a tool touches paper
When the surfaces kiss,
Out flows many thoughts, dreams,
And creativeness drips.

I can make what I want,
And I write what I please.
Drawings aren’t a problem,
And the strokes are a breeze.

All is contained in a journal
These tangling thoughts of mine,
Or out in the open
For the whole world to find.

Whenever I sketch
Part of me runs free.
And whenever I write,
It’s through my hands that I see.

Everything’s born of pencil;
Ideas pulled from the air.
It all starts with a hand
Holding pencil to paper!


One thought on “Born of Pencil

  1. Oh my gosh! This is a beautiful poem! Very well done. Just one thing– there’s an extra a in the third line. But that’s just me and my OCD coming out…

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