The blunted lead grinds against
A paling leaf
Spewing out people,
Places and memories;
Some bitter, some sweet.
He looks at them unsatisfied
“Something doesn’t seem right”, he says.
As he angrily lays it all to waste and starts afresh.
Only this time, he replaces the bitter ones
With whatever goodness that comes to his mind.
“It should be perfect now”, he thinks smiling proudly
One click and his new creation is inked
On a virgin ivory sheet
“Look what I’ve made!”, he yells
As he runs out
And sees the unusual faces.
Some with familiar voices
But faces that do not match,
Others, the opposite.
He holds his head.
As the migraine pierces
Through his skull.
And a whirlpool of blackness
Swallows the room.
“This can’t be happening”, he yells frantically
As he tatters all that lies before him
Suddenly, it all comes to a standstill
And all that’s left is the writer,
With a sharp imagination,
And a blunt pencil…