A pencil on a canvas pressed against my tips
A cadence,
of lead and wood writing down my wish.
The paper and the pencil birthed from the same seed
From dirt to my desk,
what a wonder indeed,
At first they faced death
broken from their roots
But then they give life,
when used by me or you
We give this piece of paper
Hope with our words
our drawings and our stories
shared with the world,
so even tho the tree has fallen
no more leaves to grow
Out of its destruction came alive
Something wonderful.
Every book and every single article
written in the daily blog
came from deep within the dirt,
they say we humans too are made of clay and mud
So when we fall like trees in the silent woods,
will we make a noise at all.
May 11
May 11, 2026 at 7:16 PM UTC
A pencil on a canvas pressed against my tips
A cadence,
of lead and wood writing down my wish.
The paper and the pencil birthed from the same seed
From dirt to my desk,
what a wonder indeed,
At first they faced death
broken from their roots
But then they give life,
when used by me or you
We give this piece of paper
Hope with our words
our drawings and our stories
shared with the world,
so even tho the tree has fallen
no more leaves to grow
Out of its destruction came alive
Something wonderful.
Every book and every single article
written in the daily blog
came from deep within the dirt,
they say we humans too are made of clay and mud
So when we fall like trees in the silent woods,
will we make a noise at all.