My arm aches
Writing furiously, I perspire
They’ve made fun of the lump on my middle finger
The pencil always behind my ear
But I am a writer,
And this is what we do

I feel the sharp edge of the pencil hitting the paper,
Over and over again
Trying its best to make the paper come alive
And to make the words dance
But failing, time after time again

Letting everything pour out
I am the pencil
And we write together

Then, comes the snap
As the tip breaks,
The paper rips
My dreams-
Written for life itself-
slowly drift to the ground
And gather in the dirt from my mud-soaked Adidas

As I kneel there on the floor,
desperately trying to make one what is many,
I spy a lone pen,
Lying on the linoleum tiles
And the journey begins again