holding my Ticonderoga

a pencil in my hand does a happy dance plain and unplanned, my thoughts in a trance I watch the markings, wondering what they are about when I see the words forming, I give a tiny shout why does my pencil always know before me what my mind is doing, all fearless and free? these words were channeled from beyond the veil from Coleridge or Poe, I turn a ghastly pale the pencil does not hesitate, she knows what she’s about I follow along fiercely, not about to anger or pout for my Ticonderoga knows how to write a poem every day. I am not going to hold her back or stifle her in any way.