I am not a pen, I am a pencil.

Why? I think I'd rather be a pen,

but I'm not. Well,

For instance, I can see his sleek, mahogany body right now,

being gripped tightly in a slender hand.

He is guided back and forth with fluid motions,

like the natural flow of water.

Pen leaves behind a trail of coal black ink,

erecting a language of swirls, dips and curls.

He is a master of cursive, the king of calligraphy.

For Pen, anything less than perfection is unacceptable

because his mistakes are hard to undo.

Celebrities and businessmen everywhere use his skills,

whether it is to write or just to sign their name.

His work is admired and envied by many.

But me? I am Pen's yellow-coated and sharp-pointed cousin.

From kindergartners to eminent artists,

I am everyone's trusted writing utensil.

My mistakes are more numerous,

but can easily be banished with a swipe of my pink eraser.

I can be found almost anywhere,

most often laying on the desks of assiduous students.

The language I know looks more like a messy scrawl,

but who said that writing was about neatness?

I'm the one used to shade in the depth of a sketch,

and used to scribble down the ideas that will one day make history.

My ability and practicality is respected by most.

Though, at the end of the day as the lights are flicked off,

I lay in the shadows beside Pen,

both of us merely tools of mankind and nothing more.