Picking up a Pencil

by Leo Wurgaft

When I’m picking up a pencil
I feel it in my fingers
As I smell the brittle wood
I feel its tip blend with my thoughts
A graphite fingernail

LIke a wizard takes his wand
Like a knight draws her sword
The words spoken by internal lips
Leap out and enchant the page

The scratch of my pointed pilgrim and pioneer
Is filtered through my inner ears
And the scratching turns to letters
And the letters pour from my fingers
Like the little creek you discovered in the woods
When you were little

Writing is making something out of nothing
Ignoring physics
And opinions
The only reality is your mind’s eye
And the glittering blood
You’ve let stain the paper

When I’m picking up a pencil
I hear the voices of my creations
I feel their pain
And I lose myself
In that reality
This dream
And the joy of who I am
Dances on the lines.

Leo Wurgaft, 13, is a rising eight grader from Amherst, MA.  He has enjoyed writing for the majority of his life and has loved Woven Word and the Woven Word family for the past two years.