The Pencil In The Drawer

-The Pencil In The Drawer-
by
Keaton Foster



In my desk
Lonesome
Sick
Broken at one end
Worn at the other
An instrument of death
A marker of life to extend
Whatever I want
Weaving words
Salvation or demise
All just part of the game
A dark cave or blue skies
A story of love or one of hate
Always in between I manage
I certainly feel safest
When I’m not myself
I am without question most dangerous
When I’m someone else
There is always a naked page
Idly waiting by
Screaming to be stained
Brutal always is the pain
Writing is my disease
I look forward to dying
But for now I’m busy living
Expressing, pontificating
I do it all
On an unreasonable scale
Of both scope and endeavor
Easily the wickedest of times
Permeate from this mind
Sure I am capable of truth
But I prefer to continually lie
To weave intricate webs
Of both omission and denial
I always let the reader decide
What is meant is not so clear
What is being said is to the point
Like a dagger removed from my spine
To the deepest sanctities of their minds
Intrusive and abusive
A relentless thinker forcing others
To think beyond their own nose
The pencil in my drawer
The words won’t wait
Nothingness cannot be a waste
Everything has yet to be conveyed
I’ll pay every price due for my thoughts
I won’t shrug what God has meant
He knew what he was doing with me
I understand that better than anyone
I must weave all human truth
With the lies that come from inside
I must let everyone out there know
Even if they have no desire to
Stories and poems are my means
A way that I get things done
The pencil in the drawer
A weapon of brutal choices
A means of expressing what others won’t
The broken end will become sharp
The worn end will be replaced
Continual is the case
Of what must be done
By me and my instrument
Of changing things
One marked page at a time…


The Pencil In The Drawer
Written by Keaton Foster Copyright © 2013