A very short poem on the mechanics of creative writing. Although I am drawn to the clatter of the keyboard while writing, these days, I still enjoy the feel of holding a pencil to pen poems. Reason is that a pencil’s mark can be erasable and I have also being obsessed with the image of a poet as a pencil-holding child who never outgrows the lure of his pencil’s tip.
Poised in motion,
Lead-tipped, business end
Fashioned like a dagger for semantic expeditions,
I see a pencil and
I want to desecrate blank sheets
Purge my thoughts with mind laxatives
Spew words in scribbled graphite
Let kindred thoughts pour from my soul’s fornices
Solitude holds the key to introspection
Writing is a kind of mind sanitation.