The Life of An Hb Pencil

I am from the Birch and Pine, my brothers and I--a single frame. Some labeled two and others nine, they call our home an assembly line-- We are clothed in Orange and Blues, and shaved from end to end, and used to report the news, and lost like worn out shoes-- Our purpose is never made clear-- children break us with a Snap! but that is not my greatest fear, for we grow shorter year by year. They wear us out, such evil Men-- press us hard against their desks. We never really expect it when, our faces crack again and again-- Wooden remains are all tossed away, the hour of lead--as Dickinson would say. Behold! retribution for literary slaves, Men will be sharpened to their graves.