Poem: Pencils

 Poem that came to me as I woke up and required very little tweaking. A very rare gift from the muses that I will not turn my nose up at. I blame the Wordsmith - this is the third bit of poetry I have written since starting to read her work. She might be slowly turning me into a poet.

“Pencils”

the whispering voice of the wooden one

the scratching voice of the plastic one

little workers that bring your words to life

little dancers that give your pictures shape

some use their computer more often these days

but your pencils still stand ready

loyal little friends to let you create once more