Pencil Head
poetry
What am I?
In my youth, I thought I knew
I thought myself a pencil
A yellow shaft marked with a two
Sturdy, filled with purpose
With my life, I freely drew
With reflection, perhaps I am one
But now shaved, times more than a few
Lead tip snapped then sharpened
As I papered my gray hue
Eraser flat and worn and chewed
Either end of me near my final due
Am I now the image upon the sheet?
Not the pencil, but the marks I drew?
Do I still have length? Pages to fill?
I wish to have still even an inch or two
That I can still draft a little bit more
’Til I have nothing more to hew.