I pick it up. The blank page awaits.
I touch the sharp tip. It's sharp enough.
And I start to write.

I write about the things I know.
I write true events.
I write the thoughts at the very front of my mind...

But soon,
I start to write things I don't know
I start to write words I have neither heard nor spoken
I start to write thoughts that have never revealed themselves to me

My eyes only see the graphite on the paper
My hand only moves in ways otherwise controlled
My mind whispers to the pencil
And the pencil listens

Only when the mind and the pencil communicate
Do I find
That the wisest words are those that happen to be
My own