Graphite Marks

Left hand clumsy, scribbles stray,

then back to right—the grit will stay,

smudged lines that map the hurried race

of words that stumble, lose their place.

The graphite clings, a secret scar,

a telltale trace of who we are.

Right hand steady, or so it seems,

but pencils mark our restless dreams.

Scraped palms hold what minds forget,

a graphite ghost in silhouette.

The shadow lingers, rough and stark—

the quiet tale of pencil’s mark.