• Ode to My Writing Utensils
    So beautiful is this thought
    Of using a pen. The slick lines run
    Across the page in a curling script of finality.
    A pencil is not made for moving words, rather
    For the unsure lines a drafting brings.
    The pen is thick but thin, my fingers
    Barely grasp it and the lines it makes
    Are etched in ink. This pen, it is my friend,
    The pencil but a fickle ally- who although helpful
    Never truly waits to see the dastardly results
    It might well bring. Who could ever say to this pen fair
    That lines it makes are false and never true?
    Rather, return that to my sharp pencil there,
    The proof it lies is held in the eraser.
    For why would any use this method of removal
    If not for removing words of spite?
    The pen, it runs so clean and final, the neat gathering
    Of words well told are there for good or ill.

    But who would ever say a pencil runs out, or
    Brings to final copies smears of ink?
    No, the graphite it heralds and then leaves
    By the erasers passing are swift removed.
    The pencil drafts each step the lady pen takes,
    Ensuring final words are clear and strong-
    Yes, one could easy say pencil tops pen,
    Its just the same but with a sill of easy use.
    The pencil does the dirty work for two
    It drafts and rewrites any works of fame.
    One might even say in pencils absence, pen creeps out
    To steal his words away. Though swift and beautiful
    A pen may be, pencil, to his credit, is so strong
    The killing of these words holds no dismay-
    Eraser, rather, is regarded as a friend. Ah, how cool
    And calm this graphite is! Trusted to bring calculations
    To the light, a mathematician uses only him,
    Carefully he notes down things for future use.

    Yet how could we forget my quick erasers?
    For wherever they see mistakes nigh, they quickly draw
    Their magical dispersers- the words were there
    But at their touches are no more.
    Erasers may hide behind their tall pencils,
    But in the end they stay on top of them.
    They are the force behind the pencil politician,
    Choosing only words that both make sense
    And might be true. Erasers lie, though not intentionally
    Their purposes are neither harm nor goodwill.
    The quiet power behind the force, they work tireless
    But wear down still. Compare them to the pencil, if you will,
    But pencils only put the words to paper. One might say
    The true creator is a good eraser, directing
    Each and every move the pencil makes.
    Any mistake is quickly off the record;
    Erasers make sure this is always true. They carefully
    Design the structures until later when the pens come
    To shroud all in colored inks
    That even they cannot forget.

    Which implement is better i cannot decide. This is
    An endless cycle, bound to catch them all
    Wrapping them within its tight embrace.
    Pencil drafts the words of the creators-
    Erasers, who remove them just for spite-
    But pen, the earnest and industrious worker
    Can only be truly said to copy the fine words.
    Eraser is covered by pen and spoken through pencil,
    Pencil is gone by eraser, words stolen by pen,
    Pen is helpless without the two above.
    They are lovely each but not quite right alone.

    So, our final discovery is this-
    Each is covered neatly by the other two
    And what are they without just one creative hand
    To hold them all and use them all together?