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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~--.--~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A semi-twist with hints of double entendres that can be humorous.