Plowing Pencils Into Pixels

I wish to speak of a tool which is the

Intermediary

Between your mind and mine.

I choose the #2 pencil as the symbol of the process.

Humble, ubiquitous, yellow, pointy,

One would think it would be obsolete by now

But it goes on sale with the regularity of

A ticking clock when the school year rolls around.

Oh worthy pencil, sword of the classroom,

I see you worn to a stub on the hallway floor,

Sometimes stuck into the ceiling and

Hanging like a bat,

And on occasion

Tucked neatly away in a pencil case.

Conveyor of love and hate,

Weaver of trepidation and delight,

They seek to plow you into pixels.

Yet you dance away from the screen

Like a ballerina on drugs.

I salute your tenacious

Battle with extinction.

May you save yourself

And the hand that holds you.