My family is a forgotten ebony pencil
In the desk drawer of a failing artist

My father is the broken piece of lead; rolling around near the pencil but no longer a part of it

My mother is the grip; soft, appreciated, protective, unaging

My sister is the body; the lustrous black wood that connects all of the pieces togetehr, strong unless forcibly weakened

My brother is the eraser; overused as a corrector of errors, depended upon greatly, but when the need arises cand be replaced with no strain

And me; I am the ubiquitous text, the boring information only read when there is nothing better to do, hardly ever acknowledged, forgotten