Pencilicillin

I think my pencil’s broken,
nothing’s coming out.
I’ve tried lots of paper,
now I’m feeling doubt.
~
Could it be a dream,
the writing that I’ve done?
Or perhaps a nightmare,
this time I’ve spent as one.
~
I wake up every morning,
before the sun will rise.
My chair awaits its ass,
glasses await their eyes.
~
Coffee I will slurp,
watching hours burn.
If I were a younger man,
it’d be of less concern.
~
Time is not to waste,
though I shouldn’t squawk.
My pencils served me well,
though I may try chalk.
~
I know I need my fix,
words do the trick.
Perhaps I’m not a poet,
just really, really sick.

~*~
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Sticks and Stones

Just a stick of wood,
that feels so good.
A pencil awaits a hand,
for alone it can not stand.
And lie it never should.
~
With paper it melds,
emotion thus swells.
Then feeling as should,
the lines understood.
And life’s pokes it quells.
~
The mind set free,
the future we see.
The past that is earned,
a new leaf is turned.
But breaks will always be.

~*~
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