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.
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.
