It's been a long day sitting on this desk. The hours have past too slow. I have a purpose you see, and sitting idle only makes me feel useless. I
have no eyes to look at beauty, no nose to smell the roses. The only reason I exist is to transfer thoughts to a page. When I'm not doing that, I'm
little more than a scrap of wood. Oh, the life of a pencil is not as easy as it seems.
When I was made I had great expectations for my life. I would be owned by some wonderful artist of words, making moving stories and poetry for the
world to behold. It was a little more than disappointing to end up here. The man who owns me doesn't use me very much, and when he does it's very
violent, and I'm left feeling worn and brittle. My body is covered with bite marks. If I was a man like my owner, I could scream out for help, but I
can't. I'm just a tool to be used until I'm too small to be practical.
I should probably be grateful, but I'm not. The other pencils that came in the box with myself have been left in the man's drawer, left to rot. It's
been longer than I know how to figure since I've seen them last. For all I know, I may never see them again. I miss them. I don't like the life of
Too many times, I have been tossed aside, landing harshly on the floor. Too many times, I have been twisted until I felt the grains of my body begin
to pop. I've been ground down below half my length, and though I'm used seldomly, I fear I'll never see my full potential. I'll be lost before that
is ever found.
The man has enter the room I'm in. I'm not sure how I know this. It's just instinct I guess. There's an itch that moves over me when he gets near.
I can tell when he's about to use me. I think he is.
His grasp is very tight tonight. Something on his hands is burning me. I can feel the vibrations of his voice traveling through me. He's saying
something about a man named Jack Daniels. Ouch!!!!...that really hurt. He slammed me down on the paper so hard I felt my lead give way. No
please!!!!...I hate being sharpened!!!...I know suffering is a part of the life of a pencil, but oh, how I wish to be a pen. They don't feel the
terrible ripping apart of their flesh.
Thank goodness that is over. At least I'm being used like I was made to again. We pencils may not know everything, but we know that we were made to
put words to a page, and it always feels nice to do what your made for. The man that owns me uses me so little that I really should appreciate every
little scribble I make...but I don't.
I don't understand what just happened. I seemed to be doing a good job of making words, when the man fell on top of me. I can feel his weight
crushing me. I usually pay attention to the letters and words that I was being used to make, but today I forgot to. I have a really good memory
though. Let me look back and try to remember what he was writing, and maybe I can figure out what happened.
I'm tired of your abuse. I'm tired of being a human that has a purpose, but never allowed to realize that purpose. I'm tired of living where I was
left to rot, in this house alone. I miss my family. I haven't seen them in so long. I was only halfway through this life, my body covered in the
scars of time, and now my time is up. I thought when I was little that I would do something great, but all I've done is work, and never get
appreciated. I don't care. I'm done. I'm useless. I have nothing. I'm ready to die.
Life would have been easier if I was this pencil."
edit on 4-8-2012 by isyeye because: (no reason given)