She sits there with her little pencil,
chewed in the middle,
dulled at the tip.
And an eraser that has been flattened with age.
She is trapped in her own little world;
there’s no contacting her until she’s is done.

“But I’m not done,”
She screeches to her mother as she flails her pencil.
She cannot join the world
yet, not until she finishes the middle.
Her room’s wallpaper crinkles with age
at the edge’s tip.

The wear-and-tear at the tip
will inspire her writing until she’s done,
until she is old with age
and can no longer hold a pencil.
She has finally reached the middle
of her writing, but will not go down to the outside world.

Her mom is the outside world,
She continues to holler her daughter’s name until the tip
of the crinkled wallpaper is vibrating. She stands in the middle
of the hallway lecturing until she feels done.
She will take away her daughter’s pencil.
She worries about her daughter’s future in older age.

But when this girl is of old age
she will join the rest of the world,
proudly grasping her pencil.
She will no longer have stories stuck on the tip
of her tongue. She will say, “I am done.”
She will no longer have to stop when she reaches the middle.

She will have many works with a finished middle.
She will be successful at old age.
She can choose when to be done.
She will be loved by the world.
She will still be inspired by a crinkled wallpaper tip.
And she will remember her pencil,

chewed at the middle while she was oblivious to the world.
It’s age showed by a dulled tip.
Her work will be done by the hand holding the pencil.