A PENCIL YET

This is me
not of much use
unless held by somebody
of no use at all
and that much is true
until i am
held by you


and then, from time
to time once again
sharpened to point
in hurt and pain
of no use at all
and that much is true
until i am
sharpened by you.

always knowing
that what you see
is nothing at all
to what's in me
nothing at all
and that much is true
except for what is known by you

sometimes woman
sometimes child
sometimes tame
always wild
and most of all
and that is true
a pencil yet
held by you.