My Pencil

I sit here with chin in hand

My pencil poised on paper

My mind is buzzing

Words tumble and fall

In all areas of my brain

They fight for a place up front

A bouillabaisse of letters and words

Searching for significance

Demanding to convey a sentiment, a thought

With eyes closed

Ideas form more quickly

My pencil is ready

My fingers tightly grip the pencil

Eager to record each expression

One word, two, a phrase springs to life

Words flow as a poem begins

The page fills quickly

My pencil is content at last.