Painting with pencils.

I began writing on the walls.
At first, it was necessity.
I needed to measure my height,
and with no one there to help,
I drew a small line in pencil
where I supposed my head stopped.
Then sitting alone, in my empty house
I stared at the line,
and began to think it looked quite fine.

Should I? Shant I?
What of the bond?
But what if my pencil became a wand…
It could conjure the greats to cover my walls,
so I wouldn’t feel lonely, or scared at all!
So I wrote them in pencil and I wrote them in ink
etched into the wood without stopping to think.

Shakespeare, Frost and Angelou
Gibran, and Plato and Chesterton too.
I purged their lines on the cream coloured paint
no words of my own, save wanting to taint.
I covered them high and I covered them low
and at once I was her, who I was long ago,
A shy small girl, not a friend in the land
finding comfort in pages, and a pen in her hand.

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