The implement (Object focused poem)

The life of a well used object

I was born naturally

Grew with my brothers,

Cut away, ripped away

Processed, formed, mutated, mutilated.

 

My black inside: my written blood,

My softer outside covered with wood

Surrounded by commercial painting

Gold plating, engraved on my side.

 

I am smooth and sharp,

I am used.

 

I leave my new brothers aside my body

The enclosed coffin where we lie,

And meet my cousin with my tip

The white and blank, I pattern purposely.

 

I make my mark, leave my trail

Letters, words, sentences,

I once would have grown

Now I fade away into the page.

 

I am dancing and diminishing,

I am fulfilling my fate.

 

Crunch!

My beautiful tip, ruined, destroyed!

Broken under too much pressure,

My poor insides left in dismay.

 

My tip is no longer smooth and sharp,

Blunt, crippled, uneven

Shards remaining on my body,

No more patterns, a mess, no more beauty.

 

I am shattered, injured, and useless,

I am dead.

 

A metal implement not of my family

It engulfs my tip, I cannot breathe,

Turn, cut, torn, cut.

Body parts discarded in waste.

 

Wait… I am smooth and sharp now

Free from the metal grip, dancing again

My destiny is finally in full effect,

This is my life

 

I am once more, revived,

I am resurrected.

I am one mother f****n' cool pencil, of course!