I Wrote Away The Dirt

PLEASE READ? I am iffy on the title. If you don't like the title, please leave suggestions in a review or message.

I am a pencil, but I have a story.

I was loved and adored by my owner.

she wrote with me on a constant,

like a the heart beat of a corpse.

I loved her until the day I gave up

on growing legs to search for her.

I had been dropped on the ground,

stuck rolling on the floor from the

kicks received by the human feet.

I was picked up off the tiles,

finally hopeful about being used,

just as I was born to do.

Soon after my dreams appeared true.

I was written with by a wilted poet.

His petals flowing and flowering

my brother trees, onto the paper.

I quickly felt the pain my writer emitted.

Depressed and failed, never proud.

These human emotions drove me mad,

I couldn't escape the dead music

of my grey graphite scratching brothers.

The writer wrote our last book,

it described our lives, down to the title.

Washing Away The Dirt. Sadness and 

and depression eating away at its pages,

the scar of where we died 

on the very last word. Cut into the paper,

I signaled to my friend that any life 

we had left had wilted away and broke.

I spent my life signing words into brothers.

Every day my fellow pencils and I 

act as if we are butlers to the Manor of Owners.

I am a pencil that wrote away the dirt.

Author's Note

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