The smell of a pencil

Its feeling in my hand.

A reservoir of countless words,

Ideas yet to form.

Potential in wood.

Just an instrument until it is

Connected to my hand to join with

My soul,  my ideas.

The words come in from

A place I don’t know.

They float around in my head and trail down my arm

into my pencil.

I watch as the words pour out

of the point and fill the pages with my thoughts.

But are they really mine? Does my pencil know from where they come?

I don’t.

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