1Take a pencil out,
Of your worn mug beside the orange desk lamp,
Stick the dulled tip into the black pencil sharpener,
Tug it from the spinning machine and see a pointy tip,
Tap the eraser lightly,
Underneath your chin,
Draw out ideas,
From the Depths of your mind,
Twirl your pencil in your calloused hand,
It falls onto your blank notebook page,
And off your wooden desk,
It rolls under your creaky chair,
Stoop down and reach out,
To pick it up off the floor,
An idea strikes your mind,
Before you fully straighten,
Move the pencil to the lined paper,
Make it move across the page
In an erratic, jaunty fashion,
Like your pencil is dancing near tomorrow,
Sliding toward the end of a sentence,
It goes quite fast,
And somehow as you write what spawns from your idea,
Within your mind,
Far past your consciousness,
Via the back door,
Cutting through the fog of sub-consciousness,
All the way to the back of your thoughts,
You know, you just know,
That this story will soon,
Strike upon the Earth,
Pass from mouth to mouth,
Whisper from ear to ear,
And be known throughout all of planet Earth,
Never to disappear
A/N: I seem to write a lot of poetry, don't I? This was actually written as a preposition assignment for school, and I dug it up 'cause I thought it was decent enough.