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This is my pencil,
It cost me some dimes.
And this is my poem,
It’ll cost me some rhymes.
And this is my room,
The books and the blinds,
The place where I go,
Where my soul unwinds.
My family’s there,
All framed on my shelf.
Smiling through the glass,
Just look for yourself.
I did not choose them.
They did not want me.
As long as I’m here
That’s how it will be.
And there is the book
Where my poems go.
It cost me my heart,
As few of you know.
There in the corner,
Inside that white case,
I can essay time,
And travel through space!
In that wood worked world,
Where Whitman’s words thrive,
It’s when I’m in there
I know I’m alive.
And there is the plant
That somebody gave,
Don’t know how it grows
In this dismal cave.
But like a small child,
Or fresh apple pie,
That plant gives me hope,
Though it doesn’t try.
There is my mirror.
There behind my door.
It once lied for me,
But won’t anymore.
And there’s my work smock,
That taught me the truth
About the real world.
It cost me my youth.
That’s my alarm clock
That wakes me at dawn.
It gives me sunrise,
But costs me a yawn.
And through that window
I can see the world.
But it can’t see me,
With my fingers curled
Around this pencil,
That cost me some dimes,
While I write this poem,
That cost me some rhymes.


Oh, and I'm very egotistical. VERY! :D

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