My pencil’s waiting patiently
To
transfer what I think
Onto
pages in my notebook
(More
erasable than ink).
It
follows my commands and yet
The
words are then erased,
Rejected
for another round
With
which they are replaced.
This
No. 2 is not at fault
If
I don’t want to write
Of
sickness, aging or the news,
Or
any other plight.
And
thus I jot a little rhyme,
So
I’m not out of joint,
To
get my pencil working
For,
of course, that is its point.
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