Pencil

There’s a story I want to tell,
a poem I’d like to write,
it demands a very good pencil
in order to get it right.

I could use a colored pencil,
scribble my verse in a vibrant hue;
gold or emerald or ruby red,
so many colors to choose—-

Or here, a charcoal pencil,
its lead black like the night,
perhaps an ode of darkness
to strike fear, give shivers and fright.

Or perchance a graphite pencil,
a dependable number two
and craft a rhyme that’s simple,
full of sadness to make one blue.

But here I see a pencil,
modern and mechanical,
my words must be precise and exact—
but still they will be diabolical.

Or what about a pencil
whose lead is made of wax?
Upon some glass I’ll script my verse
with clever words and syntax.

This task before me is grand,
the chore that awaits me is great!
The choice that I make
must be sure and swift—
my mind is full of words and can’t wait.

Because the tool that I will choose
dictates the poem that I will write;
would that the pencil of my choice
send my verse off in glorious flight.

It should carry my dearest reader
to far-off distant lands,
swell chest with grand emotions,
whatever my mind demands—-

So with care I’ll choose my pencil
I'll decide which one is right,
I’ll script my ode (of verse, not prose!)
and with that, good day and good night.