Pencil Lead

Whenever I hold a pencil

I have 

the urge to draw something; to watch 

something 

take shape under the careful watch 

of my 

hands; a person, a tree, 

a dog

Something beautiful and solid

I can’t, 

It would only be shaky lines 

A bald 

Cartoon; or worse a misshapen

attempt 

at realism; the art is stuck 

inside

Trapped between the chipped-nail-polished 

fingers 

of a dysgraphic teenager.

Instead 

I try to put the pencil to 

the sole

use I can: I write; I let words 

take shape 

under the clumsiness of my 

fingers

words formed in my brain; itching to 

spill out 

of my mouth confined instead to 

paper

beautiful, magnificent words

confined

to a chaotic, childish scrawl

Inside 

a shredded and tattered notebook

If I’m 

ever given a nice notebook

I gift

it to my sister; it deserves 

better

than what I can give it; better

than the 

messy scratchings of my awkward 

fingers

It needs cursive, calligraphy, or neat, 

round writing, or better yet, art

drawings,

sketches, or maybe even paint

bringing the world into its sheets 

To be 

preserved forever and ever

All my notebooks will ever see

is the 

messy inside of my backpack 

or desk

and all they will ever hold is 

nice words

in my, dyslexic, dysgraphic 

messy 

scrawl; they’re my best words, though, and they’re 

doing

their finest to preserve the world

people, trees, and dogs in their own 

snarled way