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.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
