Snap goes the lead that has led me to believe that it isn't the pencil or the paper but my grip that is too forceful
Anger, not from the paper cut or from the broken pencil tip
But fury from the tips of my fingers that still aren't fast enough to compete
I never was quick enough on my feet anyway
I must keep my distance now
Even if that means I slow my pace
It doesn't matter since I'm always in last place
The thoughts however, race
And viciously they break into scribbles on the page
It will break again
I shouldn't have anticipated a different result
You are not at fault,
My sturdy oak.
They chopped you down and you had no choice but to fall
Into the the hands of the broken writer