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?