The black lead bit
chips, scratches a bit,
creating a mistake
on the page
where many more mistakes
are bound to be made.

I haven’t always got it made.
It’s hard to extract
the anguish, the anger,
from this anatomy of torture,
an inquisitional serenade.

a torture committed by pencil,
mechanical pencil,
committed between
the blue regimented lines
without nary a stencil.

It is a torture
as it is torturous to read.
The paper branded
in the light is easy to see,
an unreal thought made material,
and therefore more real
and easier to feel.

The lead bleeds from its stick,
lines of organic word per bic,
alphabetic, frenetic bits
of a repressed, beyond wits.

The click-click button
on the plastic sheath
indicates that the instrument is empty,
the torture ceasing,
until another slim cylinder
reloads, feeds, repeating.


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