Back then,
When he was that age,
They were his crayons.
Colorful, diverse.
He played with them -
they made him happy.

Back then,
When he was that age,
They were his markers.
Colorful, diverse,
they were fun.
But on occasion -
They dried up,
As markers sometimes do.

Back then,
When he was that age.
They were his pencils.
Not quite as diverse,
Not quite as colorful.
But they were steady and there.
Though on occasion.
They broke.

Back then,
In a time closer to now,
They were his mechanical pencils.
He relied on them.
But he put the tiniest pressure -
And they broke.
Constantly.
They were no longer diverse -
Instead all looking too much alike.
Conforming.

Eventually,
He stopped writing.