M.Stones

Pencils

  A three part poem

A Tool:

There is a fine tipped tool,

A tool used by,

Geniuses,

And Foools,

Made of pristine,

Incense,

Cedar Wood,

With graphite and led,

Used to write,

Books,

For cooks,

And stories,

For children in bed,

This tool can be sharpened,

This tool can erase,

This tool can be used as a weapon,

To eliminate a whole race,

This tool can start wars,

Writing blood shed into documents,

Recording historical events,

Of battles,

One and lost,

Lives taken away,

Nothing to see,

But a cross,

That happened,

In one place,

This tool can design,

Blueprints of buildings,

For Infrastructure and Sculpture

Line for Line,

This tool can draw,

A Beautiful picture,

That can depicture,

A flaw,

This tool enslaved men,

Passed laws to hang them,

This tool has been used by many artist,

And many creators,

This tool can spark minds in youth,

As it did mine,

This tool educates,

Students,

Across the world,

It's the number one most used tool in the world,

Yet it is always number,

Two

The art of the pencil:

A single pencil alone,

Can create the most,

Beautiful art,

A pencil alone,

In the hands of a creative mind,

Could create art that is unfathomable,

Speaking many stories,

Interpreting many meanings,

Sketches that turn into full blown portraits,

Drawing was the very first talent i was good at,

Something I could find sanctuary,

Without a worry in mind,

Is where,

I was at most of the time,

Taking myself to another place,

See it all starts with a pen,

Marker,

Crayon,

Or even chalk,

On the sidewalks that walk,

Or on the board,

With,

Ear,

Irritating,

Sounds,

That kept students bored,

But you,

Could only hear the sound of my pencil,

As i rapidly,

Drew monsters,

Characters,

Even students I didn't like,

As a creative expression,

That later helped me conquer depression,

It became my therapy session,

See this pencil is my obsession,

For the art I love now,

And that is a blessin,

The art of the pencil is so beautiful,

It even reflects oppression,

See art speaks many,

And even louder words,

That can be heard as the pencil,

Scribbles across the paper,

That most find absurd,

See you must master this pencil,

This pencil is a fine tipped tool,

That when past down,

Can be a stepping stool,

To another artist,

See the pencil,

Itself,

Is art itself,

That created itself,

Defining many things we know,

As art itself,

You yourself,

Are a piece of art,

Created by the lines of a stencil,

Created by the pencil,

Of man and woman,

You become,

The pencil,

That uses the world,

As a  sketchbook,

To be created how you look,

What you put into this world is art,

And you are the artist,

You are the pencil,

That soon will be broken,

If your mind isn't awoken,

To the hidden truth of your talent,

Be awoken to your own talents,

And find artistic balance,

In the pencil.

A broken pencil is a broken soul:

A broken pencil is a broken soul,

I put my soul into the,

Pen,

Pen,

Pencil,

That i write,

My poetry is my art,

That cannot be put into words,

My words,

Words,

Words,

Recite the poetry that i scripture,

A broken pen,

A broken pencil,

Is a broken soul,

When the love and hard work,

Comes from,

The led tipped,

7.5 inched,

Hexagonic,

Wooden,

Shaped tool,

That I use to,

Express that words,

I can't finesse,

Through my tongue,

Because it is guarded by the cat that took it,

My pencil is broken,

Because I lost the love i have,

To be an artist,

A poet,

A writer,

But that love cannot be lost,

Because what is lost can be found,

And what is found can be treasure,

The gold to the person who desires it,

In his heart,

The pencil i use is my art,

My soul is broken,

But my third eye is woken,

And write facts and spit them,

That got these fugazis choken,

My pen,

Pen,

Pencil is broken,

But some tape can fix,

Make all better,

But what's better,

Than a favorite pencil,

A NEW PENCIL?

Maybe,

But i don't feel like getting one,

Cause i'm lazy,

And cuz,

Writing with this pencil,

Gives my fingers that buz,

And i don't wanna lose that,

Feeling that once was,

The best feeling u could get,

Cause nothing satisfies me more,

Than drawing a complete picture,

Or a poem,

That gives a slight painful sensation,

That gives me quite the elation,

In my ring finger.

A broken pencil is a broken soul,

When you lose sight,

In what truly matters,

U and your talent,

And what you love is that light,

And it's beautiful,

To see fly off and sour in the wind,

Like a kite,

A broken pencil is a broken soul,

But you pick up that piece,

And keep writing,

And erasing,

Because nothing is ever broken,

When your mind is awoken.