A forest filled of trees
But one stays still is
The lonely pencil.
I am useful
Until I meet death
Which is the end of all things
A pencil stands up tall.
Part of what once a living tree
Vow wastefully being used.
The height . . .
Is one thing.
The tip . . .
Is another thing.
But the tip will be the same,
The height will not.
The pencil was a tree
But the shape will change over time.
Now short and delicate as a feather.
Either thick or thin,
The pencil layer on the desk,
Day after day,
Waiting to be wasted.
It was once tall and wide.
It was once tall and smooth.
Until the very end.
It turned into nothing but . . .
But a tiny small stump.
Smaller than it once was.
YOU ARE READING
A Collection of My Random Poems
PoetryThis is a collection of my poems that I have written. The will be long breaks between each poem posting. Some of them will appear in my other collections of work because they relate to the topic of that collection of work. I hope you enjoy reading t...
