A Pencil With Writer's Block

They say every writer's got a story… but I'm down to my last line.

I've been sharpened, used, and left behind,

Every thought once yours — now mine.

The poet sleeps, the paper waits,

But I just stare and contemplate.

The words won't come, the ink's run dry,

Even graphite dreams can cry.

Oh, I'm a pencil with writer's block,

Once a spark, now just a smudge and shock.

You twist, you press, I try to speak —

But my point's been lost for weeks.

Used to dance across the page,

Sketching hearts and center stage.

Now I'm short, I'm dull, I'm shy,

Just a stump beneath your sigh.

If muses fade and lines grow cold,

Even pencils fear getting old.

Oh, I'm a pencil with writer's block,

Once sharp wit — now broken stock.

You used to hold me every night,

Now you type instead… ain't that right?

You traded my touch for a screen's blue glow,

No erasers there — just endless scroll.

Guess even graphite hearts can snap,

When they've been pressed too low.

Oh, I'm a pencil with writer's block,

Rolling slow in a wooden dock.

One more word, I'd gladly give —

But baby… I've got nothing left to live.

Guess I'm just… pointless.