There's
no point on my
pencil.
It has dulled
over time
and experiences.
But its story began
years ago.
It was stemmed anew
made naturally
and packaged unnaturally
in sheets of crinkling plastic.
It's first day,
the first sharpening,
resulted in success.
A tip so fine
a needle would
be jealous.
And with such a clean canvas
of paper so white
that there was a glare
how could joy compare.
The first time
pressure was applied
it hurt and the tip
snapped leaving
shattered lead remains
that wrote broken.
Shameful.
To break on first point.
A journey followed,
bad and good times involved.
Resharpening after a hard day's, or night's,
work.
Handwritten, cursive, plain.
Shading, drawing creating.
Ah was the life of a pencil.
Along the years the eraser dwindled,
the yellow school bus coating chipped and weathered
bitten and gnawed on
and too much force
giving way to[ ]and constant resharpening.
*(You may wonder,
how does one pencil last, years...
There was a period
where fallen and forgotten under the bed
lay
and was not found until
the owner had grown at least a head.)*
And so it became to be
too much
as a pencil does not approach infinity,
like last evening's calculus.
There was a limit.
The pencil grew to a stub,
negatively,
and soon there was
No Point~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~--.--~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~