Undercover

Concealing my metal head
An intruder in the midst
I lie flat among the common wooden sticks
And the clicking rubber-tipped rods

I am not a pencil, you see
Not one of those fools
Whose words can be erased and forgotten
I am a Pen, the sleek, seemingly harmless weapon
With an inky heart of darkness

The words of my soul cannot be removed
Once written, they’re there to stay
They can only be hidden by a white shroud
But never truly disappear

But my aged body no longer has a strong voice
I can barely choke forth a sentence
The time has come for my disposal
Where I become an empty metal shell

It’s only been about a month
Since I have left the shelf of the store
The days of youth and wasted ink
Doodles on a scrap of paper

So it is that I am hiding from my fate
A terrible one indeed
The owner of this pencil case
Shall not know my ailment

I will lie here unnoticed
And extend my short life
Watching these faint lead-hearted bodies
Come and go as well





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