FROM PENCIL TO PEN

                FROM

               PENCIL

                   TO

                 PEN








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soulstitch_04
soulstitch_04 aesthetically aestivating
Autoplay OFF   •   a year ago
Was that when things started to get too complicated to comprehend?

For the daily prompt.

FROM PENCIL TO PEN

I held a pencil

I held a pencil in my tiny, trembling hands,

I held a pencil in my tiny, trembling hands, drew lines, letters and learned to live.

I held a pencil,

I held a pencil, fearing it was too sharp,

I held a pencil, fearing it was too sharp, or perhaps too blunt

I held a pencil, fearing it was too sharp, or perhaps too blunt to impress the teacher with a flawless homework.

I held a pencil

I held a pencil and began sketching

I held a pencil and began sketching the vivid yet unclear image of my dream

onto white pages of countless notebooks.

They were rather insipid contrasted to

They were rather insipid contrasted to the ravishing, raging red of the teacher’s pen.

And yet they blushed when embraced by a rare “Good”.

“Good”.

Often it broke- my pencil.

Even the infamous “cutter” was rude at times.

How I longed then to grab an unsophisticated pen

to get rid of this fussy pencil-

arrogant

impulsive

erratic.

Now that ink spots stain

Now that ink spots stain my palms and twisted, aching fingers,

the pencil with the broken nib

the pencil with the broken nib is my only nightmare,

the pencil with the broken nib is my only nightmare, and my only fond guilt.

I never now forget

I never now forget to feel its comforting warmth in my callused hands.

I try now to forget

I try now to forget my silly misgivings about my pencil

that is now long lost, long sacrificed

to the concrete commandments of my pen-

insensitive

indelible

indispensable.

Only my tears can smudge this ink.

Only my tears can smudge this ink. But they too are hesitant to fall.

Only my tears can smudge this ink. But they too are hesitant to fall. Who shall pick them up in loving care.

Only my tears can smudge this ink. But they too are hesitant to fall. Who shall pick them up in loving care. And caress away their crushing despair.

So when I now hold a pencil,

So when I now hold a pencil, it speaks to me

So when I now hold a pencil, it speaks to me with silent reproach.

It scorns me

It scorns me for having scorned it.

It scorns me for having scorned it. But it knows, and I know too  that-

I left behind a small part of me

I left behind a small part of me on that cold cliff where childhood perched

I left behind a small part of me on that cold cliff where childhood perched alive,

When I began my slow, unsteady steps

When I began my slow, unsteady steps on that lone, ancient bridge.

to moustachioed melancholy

to moustachioed melancholy to lifeless labor

to moustachioed melancholy to lifeless labor to remorseful remembrance

.

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