My Pencil, My Toughts

A Poem by GPK

Today, I pick up my pencil to write. It has a different feel then when I type. My thoughts flow through my mind, each acting as if they know where they are going. I adjust myself in the chair and straiten my spine. Taking a deep breath in the nose and out the mouth, a sensation of calmness envelopes my concessions. I peer down at the wooden desk, the notebook sprawled open, staring back at me. The blank pages yearn to me be filled, to be covered, as if it somehow was tempted and ate the forbidden fruit. I raise my arm, the instrument of my art in hand and make contact with the sheet. With each stroke of the hand, and the slight pressure pushed upon the leaded tip, I make a bridge between the metaphysical abstractions of my ego and the physical universe. Hesitant, I write nothing. As a child I was thought words can hurt. When I matured, I also learned that words have the power of change. That is why I pick my words carefully. Like an architectural draftsman perched at his drawing table, I make my own blueprint of words to craft. Today, I picked up my pencil, wrote hundreds of words, and had nothing to say.