Pencil - Writers Cramp

I stared at it,
Thinking how could this be,
My pencil was talking,
It was talking to me.

It wasn’t moving,
Not a twitch or a flick,
But for sure it was the pencil,
I had to get rid of it quick.

It asked why I wasted it,
Why I wrote such drivel,
It cursed my stupidity,
In making it shrivel.

It set me to task,
To use it for good,
I talked back,
Promising I would.

Why I talked to a pencil,
I’ll never know,
But it became a good friend,
One that I’ll never show.

Not to my parents,
Not to my friends,
This pencil is mine,
Until it ends.