The Broken Pencil
Two half’s make it whole, something I will never be again
The Broken Pencil
The broken pencil
lies where I left it,
a thin, cold wound
across my quiet space.
Its snapped-off point
still carries all my secrets,
the ones I wrote
when fear was louder.
I touch the crack,
feel something in me echo,
a silent break
I cannot hide.
The page stays blank,
as if it knows my weakness,
as if my thoughts
are meant to bruise.
I try again,
but every mark grows crooked,
like trembling hands
that lost their truth.
The darkness folds
around my failed confession,
a deeper shade
I sink into.
And in the end,
the pencil feels like warning,
a small, sharp piece
of what I am.
About the Creator
Marie381Uk
I've been writing poetry since the age of fourteen. With pen in hand, I wander through realms unseen. The pen holds power; ink reveals hidden thoughts. A poet may speak truth or weave a tale. You decide. Let pen and ink capture your mind❤️
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Comments (2)
This is a poem that also shows the hard work it takes to be poet writer. Good work.
Stunning work! Go Marie! 💕