Pencils and Humans

A tender twig from a long inert tree
Could couple with some graphite

And vent out its long-trapped emotions

Without expressional barriers.

No telephonic oddities to help the pencil

But never does it cease to utter its ponderings

What good are humans, furnished with what not?

When they can't dare to splutter it out?

The social animal with every wondrous possession

Cannot just bottle the bubbles of its heart

The world isn't the game of silence, Merlin!

You have to be open and shout it out!

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