"Scribble, scribble, scribble, scribble, scribble, scribble...CRACK!"

          I groan as look down to see what my pencil had attacked.

The words seem ok, the sentences intact,

          But a smear has left my work a mess; the lines now seem stacked.

I try to erase the smudge, but the mark is too intense.

          The paper is now scarred, my story left in suspense.

But I don't worry too much, I find this a pretense,

          A foreshadow to a new plot that'll grab my audience.

Like life, my paper lays out before me, a blank slate to mark.

          As soon as I begin to write, my pencil starts a spark.

The spark leads to a flame; with freedom I fly like a lark.

          It takes me to higher ground; I, a poetic Tony Stark.

I use this tool to my advantage, a simple risk I take,

          To try to fully express myself, a picture I do make,

With words that combine to create not a fake,

          But a real and true side of me that I never did spake (of).

I love writing poety; I know that sounds as cliche.

          But there comes not to mind the write words to properly say,

In poetry I've found that there are words that do not stay,

          Usually, structure and rhythm leave the paper, as they may.

I've always written feelings in poems since I was ten.

          I like to use them as support; my wounds they seem to mend.

I look back on all my work, both clean and smeared to no end.

          And I've come to the conclusion...

                              Maybe next time I'll use a pen...