“How many pencils do I have left? Not many. How much patience do I possess? Going on lingering and far between. It’s almost as if the pencils in my extra pencil drawer are a reflection of me.”
“Too many tell me I can’t have God, but don’t tell me I can’t have Faith.”
Broken Pencils
Pencils falling to the ground.
Books pile up in lost and found.
I wonder if I’m doing this right. I wonder if something may work out right.
I question if the smiling faces will return or if my voice will be left unheard.
“How many years did I work for this?”
I find myself repeating once more, shifting desks, collecting papers, disillusioned, and unsure.
“Next year will be better,” but some how it doesn’t make the present so.
Can the future correct the past?
Wouldn’t I like to know.
Writer's Watering Hole for the Soul 