There is a special pencil in my drawer.

A very special pencil in my drawer.

A rather unusual pencil.

It does not use lead,

and the only color it can produce is red.

It lays in my drawer, silent to all but me,

whispering in its silver voice, each word serene.

It is a little twisted,

but so am I.

I have parchment upon my wrists,

And on them I have made lists.

Nothing special.

Just lines.

Lines I color red using my special pencil.

The parchment cares not for the pencil's cold touch,

but the red color soon warms it up.

The pencil too, is a single line-

Pretty and silver, sharp and fine.

It slices the paper

and one thousand words pour

out from the tip, but there must be more.

Yes, a novel I would like to write

on my parchment, so pristine and white.

And so I begin,

shoving the pencil deep into my skin.

But I have written too much.

The ink will not stop flowing…