My Pencil
I sit here with chin in hand
My pencil poised on paper
My mind is buzzing
Words tumble and fall
In all areas of my brain
They fight for a place up front
A bouillabaisse of letters and words
Searching for significance
Demanding to convey a sentiment, a thought
With eyes closed
Ideas form more quickly
My pencil is ready
My fingers grip tightly
Eager to record each expression
One word, two, a phrase springs to life
Words flow as a poem begins
The page fills quickly
My pencil is content at last.
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