Today, like almost every other day, I thought to myself, "maybe I'll write today"
And, though like every other time the thought passed through my mind I scoffed at it, I actually decided it might be worth it
I looked around, found paper in my favorite yellow folder, and was almost ready
Then I remembered one of the most important pieces, the pencil
The only way I'd get anything to come alive, instead of distracting myself and turning this almost poem into a paper airplane

Here's the irony my friend; I couldn't find one
I looked and looked for a while but just couldn't find one
Sure, I found pens, but I'm a pencil purist,  or perhaps I don't have the courage to write in pen
Yet, for some unknown reason I became determined, and by a stroke of luck I found a pencil, hidden beneath a broken painting in the corner of the room

Eureka!, Aha!, and any other exclamation that may fit

I sat on the bed, got close to the papers, as always with my once typical writer's stance, clutched the instrument in my hand, and soon found the mechanical devil had no lead
Was the universe sending a sign?
I really thought so
I thought some greater force wanted me to just stop, really quit for good this time
Then I kind of realized something; What does the universe care if I write a bad poem or not?
No, it wouldn't
So I got up and looked again
And ya know what? It didn't take so long to find the second pencil, it was right where I found the first one
It had plenty of lead in it too, enough to write maybe ten more poems, good or bad
The eraser is wearing thin though, a reminder of my past mistakes

This isn't easy
There are tears on the paper
Like little oceans trying to get in the way
Like this poem is going to go down like the Titanic
But this poem isn't the Titanic
It wasn't thought to be beautiful and revolutionary when first created, I knew it would be mediocre at best
And if this poem goes crashing down it won't be a travesty, and millions won't be hurt
No, I'll just frown a bit
Also, I'm hoping this poem gets to where it needs to, unlike the Titanic

My hand is shaking as I write this nothingness down
The evidence is in my bad handwriting
And this page that was so crisp and clean before is wrinkled, smudged, and defaced
And a little damp
And do you know how I feel now that it's coming to a close?
A little better


I decided not to rip this one up