A tall and white cylindrical
It contains the lost
skin of a pencil.
That lost skin belongs to you,
my childhood friend.
Your sweet and humorous cover
has been shaved off by the metal
sheets of a pencil sharpener.
What remains is a pencil bare and sensitive to anyone else’s hands.
If someone else tries to erase
what you write, you harden
and don't lose a fragment of your rubber.
When others frown upon your lack of
use when it comes to communicating,
I try to comfort you and use your lead from time to time.
But, each time I try to write a contradictory
statement or spelling error,
you keep b r e a k i n g y o u r t i p
and won't sharpen,
even if I shave you down to the eraser.
I don't want to lose you today,
but it's tempting to throw you away.