Writing Gut Deep

What are pencils, could they write my heart; the classified model I’ve worn for ages? Is there lead enough to compose my legacy, this testament painted on the fast coming tombstone; what pencil could write God’s memory of me? Who cradle your spawn, and rock him when you can’t find yourself; who remember his parched lips and talking stomach? Be like Moses, they said, lead my greedy Israelites, be a father to them, help me to create tomorrow’s no goods by nurturing their pining for unreality, forsake your post Could pencils write my merits going back into their pockets, or the little minds focused on the flickering and changing shapes, and fingers dutifully pushing buttons? Could pencils capture me in my mental cotton fields while my seed is up, way past his bedtime, could they? See, I heard his stomach talking like mine did in ‘88 When the hurricane visited and departed with things we did not give him What are pencils, could they write this heart? Could they draw pieces of this broken vessel, could they? Come, they said, come and be a father to the fortunate Forsake thy flesh and fuel the appetite of the glutton, continue the legend Craft paucity by writing their intentions, let them be reliant Forsake yours and shape these slaves help us to erect pyramids through them