Thin as a Pencil

I am a pencil, thin and easily broken by the words spoken at me. My creativity is easily expressed through my marks on my paper, and the yellowness covering my body presents a sense of mundane and ordinary. Just as all pencils are expected to be able to scribble on paper, my expectations as a person of yellow color emphasize that I must be intellectually gifted yet physically scrawny. I find myself oftentimes turning upside down at the critique thrown at me and erasing whatever blunders I can find. Though my applicability and usability are immense, I’m ultimately lost in the mass of other pencils, all withholding similar expectations imposed upon them by society. The irony that the very words I create are also the ones that tear me down, makes me terrified of the words I let out. Criticism of an erroneous mark or misplaced word unavoidably engulfs all pencils. This judgment has sucked out all my self-esteem, and I embody the pencil that willingly allows other, more capable beings, to use me, and take advantage of the potential that I never discovered myself.  

Perhaps the greatest the greatest envy I have is that for the pen. The pen and the pencil are vastly different; the pencil creates scribbles while the pen can amass beautiful, bold and confident works of writing. The pen creates timeless and permanent pieces, while I hold the expectation to be erased, blurred, and replaced by the more important and secure ideals. The pen's slender figure is entailed with a soft grip that is pleasurable to hold, while the rough unpleasing edges of the pencil burden the hand that grips it. The pen lies comfortably in its crystal casing, each priced considerably as a luxurious device with individual niches and qualities. 

I've long since lost "my sense of worth"(Morrison) and forgotten the possibilities a pencil can create. Attempts to realize the potential will only be over-ridden by the conceived notion that pencils are expendable, bought in packs of 100, and created as the most basic and bland tool of writing. Perhaps the overexposure of the pencil has lead us to forget that the malleability that only pencil lead can create. As society condemns pencil-work as meaningless scribbles and allows it to dull, it's innate potential will be forgotten. I hope that someone will see the capabilities in me that I cannot see myself, help me sharpen again my lead, and only then, can I create art from the scribbles.