Here I sit with a pencil in my hand.
The pencil touches the paper before me,
But nothing happens.
Now what is wrong?

The pencil moves across the page,
Creating senseless doodles,
But nothing is written.
Come on pencil!

Where has the magic gone?
The magic of the pencil?
It seems to have disappeared.
Is it lost?

Come on pencil! You cannot have died!
You are not broken, bent, or shattered.
And it cannot be lead poisoning,
As all you have is graphite.

Wait one moment, you mean to say
That you have been composing
While I sat here and fretted?
Well, just be that way.

So here is my poem, strange though it be
About a pencil, by a pencil.
Though I take all the credit,
Of course.