I wrote this poem while in a particular boring Marketting class at College, years ago, then found it suddenly while going through my drawers. I’ve contemplated turning it into a childrens book.
A tear formed in reality,
Through which came tiny specks.
The tear did then close up again,
Leaving onlookers perplexed.
The specks, they searched the land
For pencils, high and low.
Coloured pencils of all sorts,
Though they preferred yellow.
The specks, they saw a pencil,
One they thought was fit to grab.
But a human used this pencil,
This was one they couldn’t nab.
They didn’t need the pencils,
Chunkas would’ve done.
But Chunkas were to hard to find,
So far they had but one.
Then they spied another pencil,
Beside a pot of glue.
And they liked the look of it,
Even though it was blue.
They crept up silently,
And hid behind the pot.
They planned to take it by surprise,
Which worked, more often than not.
The specks, they leapt out yelling,
And grabbed the pencil tightly.
They dragged it back behind the pot;
it only struggled lightly.
But they were surprised,
when a human man appeared!
He was looking for the pencil,
and its absence he found weird.
They wondered what to do,
Should they keep their prize?
The man did miss the pencil,
They could see it in his eyes.
The right thing, they decided,
Was to set the pencil free.
Let it roll back to it’s human
Where it could write in glee.
You see, they never took
That which would be missed.
So if it was being used
Then the specks had to resist.
So when a tear formed in reality
The specks, they were quite sad.
They would go home pencil free…
Though their sock-count wasn’t bad.
A tear closed in reality.
The specks have all gone home.
The pencils are all safe.
Just be careful of your comb.
