With a brand new pencil and sharpener in hand
I stare at a blank sheet of paper as I begin to mend.
The dark as night lead pierces its head out of the wood.
Leaving curled up shavings behind as it leaps through.
What do I converge into words?
Today, my thoughts are so very few.
My mind’s as clean as a virgin canvas,
Not even a dot to kick-start a scribble new.
Doodling around and scribbling like always.
The piece of lead slowly begins to move.
Starting of with some straight and oblique lines;
Followed by circles and curves, yet it feels no good.
The rear end of the pencil now gets into action,
Erasing some creations of its poles-apart foe;
Rubbing its head remorsefully with regret,
It silently cleans up the mess the opponent had made.
Once again the creator resumes
Not surprised that the remains are so few.
Even if it were to start from scratch,
The excitement never ends nor does it turn passive.
So here I go again trying to confide,
Almost everything that’s left to corrode in my brain.
This is the therapy for Scribbler’s block I guess;
Now it’s time to use the pencil’s rear end, once again.