A.
The pencil has always
been your best friend,
Next to journals— Leather-bound
or decorated with some
Aesthetically pleasing
design or scene of
Mountains in Japan.
Every couple months you
take them out and
Lay them side by side,
comparing their size
and width, admiring
the pale, thin pages
that lay so stiff and clean.
You pour your ideas over them,
imagining what kind of
Story or collection of poems
would fit most nicely on
Those lovely leaves—
and yet you prefer to keep
your most treasured memoirs
and random musings safe
upon scraps of loose-leaf worksheets,
Piled in the corner.

B.
You use your assignment
Notebook as a daily
Record—not of classes,
but of the lives that
Flitter through your mind,
Scarred by the eggshells
from which they emerged
some months or years ago.
Only every now and then
are doodles replaced with
Notations— “page 37, one to twelve”
or “Mrs. Deisly didn’t shave
her facial hair today.”
A year from now you’ll
pull it out from your
Old backpack that you still
haven’t yet thrown away,
and grimace at the
Technical mistakes, but
Secretly and softly wish
that pencil strokes could still
so easily form bodies
that meant something to you.

C.
Your English teachers said,
“Write what you know,” but
Days like these you just
take pleasure out of making up
some tragic past you can assume
that will explain your laziness.
Until Thanksgiving you were
Fine to keep this all up
in your head, but all the
Happiness and stress of
Turkey-basting, pumpkin pie
has forced you now to realize
how disjointed your life became
once you were left
Alone with Mom and Dad, a
Cancer-dog and diabetic
cat—you tell your therapist
why nothing’s ever good enough
if the grade’s not an A, but
Fail to mention how you
have given up living your life
to live as someone else.

D.
A few times through the year,
the Hall Nazi comes in, and
Says it’s unacceptable
to eat lunch in the office
for the school newspaper. You
Complain to all your peers
how pointless his argument is—
You’re on the staff, but in your
Mind you scold yourself for never
writing articles. Now
Mom asks why you never
eat with friends, but
Bitterly you reminisce
that friends all fail
Eventually—except for
those who go away
before they have the chance.
It’s not clear yet
which way is worse,
but let it slide, as you
Eat your squished turkey sandwich.

F.
Things are different now—you
Left your journal stacks
at home, replaced by a
Gold-painted watch and
Fancy jeans. You buy artsy earrings,
but only the cheap kind
that fall apart after
only a week or so. Inside
You tell yourself that
these things aren’t important,
but yearn silently for the
200-dollar sweater
that’s in the mall. At night
You sit in bed, music
Plugged into your ears,
pencil in hand—some words
Escape, but tomorrow you’ll
Leave for class with nothing done,
and soon enough you’ll lose
your pencil-friend beneath a chair.

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