A poem starts with a single word.
The pencil wrote a word on an empty page,
then another and another,
the words spilling into their own special shape,
joining together, becoming phrases, lines of ideas.
Each line twinkled with pleasure at its uniqueness
and invited the pencil to write some more.
Onto the page more words tumbled,
playing, uniting, creating an image.
But this wasn’t enough.
We want to be read they proclaimed.
The keyboard transported them onto the screen,
but the words demanded more.
With the tap of a button, a split second tap,
they were gone, uplifted,
thrown out into the world,
glistening like shells on a beach
for anyone to find.
The pencil felt lonely, abandoned,
and needing to feel useful
it wrote another word
onto another page.
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