The Pencil Knows

What if our pencil knew what we wanted to write?
What if, when we picked it up, it could read our minds?

Maybe in a classroom or an office,
maybe on a park bench or in a bed,
maybe in a coffee shop when you're all alone,
or maybe in the car when silence is too loud.

And when we started writing,
it would think how bad we are
at keeping all our thoughts inside,
thoughts that keep destroying our hearts.

The sentences we are too scared to write
haunt us—and the tool,
the thing that's forced to be used,
carries them too.

But if the paper was smooth
and the pencil was sharp,
it all goes to waste
because we keep the messages hidden in the dark.

And every word we wrote
instead of the truth
was breaking down the pencil's lead
and our minds too.

And the pencil became burdened with our sorrow,
because it knew the words inside our minds
were far more meaningful
than the words we wrote.

And the pencil would finally break.

We throw it away
or put it down,
leaving it there
just to be found.

And all we are doing, without a thought,
is painting a picture of ourselves—

a tool that's only useful when it's right,
and easily discarded when it's not,
being weighed down
with words of fright.

And when broken or dull,
we are set in a cup
until someone cares enough
to sharpen our lead
and try again,

but failing
when we are buried with lies.

And the eraser is used up
when we try to go back
and fix a mistake,
but it seems too late.

Because we try to erase our past,
but we're left with smudges
and stains on the page
because we erased too much.

So we write again.

But when we do,
it's a sentence
filled with lies.