My pencil dulls while I write and write.
Only my paper is fully in sight.
I could write for days and nights, while I write and write.
My pencil goes on scribbling, which I find addicting, and I go on, pencil directing.
I wrote ‘til three pages were crumpled and wrote on,
“I wish I could go on!”
But it all came to a stop, and my pencil dropped.
My eyes were opened wide, as my hand ached,
“Is there anything else I can make?”
I knew there was, and I thought and thought, until my thinking came to a stop.
I got it!
So, I sought paper, and a pen.
I didn’t know if THIS was ever gonna end.
There I again wrote away, wrote away another day.
And that is where THIS poem makes way.