The Yellow Ticonderoga Pencil
I get can't get this right
no matter how many times I do it
The clock continues to click
My paper stares back at me empty
My mind tires from pitching out ideas only for them to be foul balls
The yellow Ticonderoga pencil is lifeless, without amusement
It's better half is warm from rubbing against the blank paper
Both sit still not from anticipation but from boredom
My fingers dance outlining a circle
a never-ending ring of what it is to be a writer
to read
to think
to write
to read
to think
to write
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