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!