Evan Frisina          12/09/14

When it goes through surviving
A series of ripping and shredding
You don't think much of it.

But as its point cracks
In the middle of a white barren wasteland
It takes off.

It goes across the room arriving at a strange machine
With one hole that seems to lead to nothing
yet underneath in a transparent jail cell a Slaughterhouse
Of pencil shavings sit there.

When you plunge it into its worst nightmare,
The buzzing starts
As you shave years off its life.

The moment of truth
When you look deep into its lead
And decide whether it pleases you. 

It passes the test, and you return
To your chair as the rigorous process begins
Again.