My Half-An-Inch of A Pencil


Pipe running, ends in cone

filled with poison, no need for stone.

Casts them lines in lead

fires bullets and paints heart red.

Weapon to the mind, still

some hearts can be kind.

Build the world, no one’s ever heard

“Here! use a rubber, pick a scale

enough of the free hand”- the world may say.

The traces of vigour, alas! still linger

Power to the fingers,

it is reborn each circle

as blades shave and expose

the incoming big close.

steal those hearts, make’em cry

great tragedies, give it a try.

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"Romance is the privilege of the rich, not the profession of the unemployed" -Oscar Wilde. Yet every now and then I find myself indulging in it. A painter at heart, a poet in the dark, a coder by the day, a writer so to say