A man of many; a man of few

I woke up

My face dripping with sweat

I couldn’t stand the thought of sleeping in the night without picking up my pencil

At least once,

Even if it were to only write a word

My pencil was my sanctuary

My safe haven my protection

What would I do if I’d abandoned my pencil?

Who am I without my pencil?

Just a regular, good for nothing guy who has no purpose

I’m looking around

Feeling for my pencil on the bedside table,

The floor,

Everywhere;

Forgetting I’m in the dark

For a minute, I thought I was going insane

I’ve become trapped inside my membrane

The thought of not having my pencil,

My confidant

My everything

I finally stumble to the wall and flicker on the light

I see my pencil in the far distance

Glowing as if it’s the holy grail

Praying for me to pick it up and glide it across my paper

The sad, desperate look in its eyes

My pencil gets farther as I try to get closer

I’m running and running and running trying to grab my pencil

It’s in arms reach

I can finally breathe, relax as I grasp my pencil in my hand

Now, I have my best friend back

Filled with ammunition that can do much more damage than bullets ever could

I can kill you with bullets or murder you with words

I can devour your soul with my words and make you cry blood from your eyes, transparent through your lies and force you to cut ties with everyone you love just so you can go run and hide

I can make you swallow my words, defecate your ego and piss out your tears all at once;

Making you a shallow hole of your former self

I’m not a thug with a gun

I’m a man that has a way with words that can charm you or stab you repeatedly

I’m a man of few words, quiet, silent and let my writing do the talking

I’m a man of many; a man of few

I’m just a man with a pencil