A pencil with no eraser

Found an old pencil, no eraser in sight,

worn down to a stub, a tale etched in might.

Each line tells a story, a moment, a thought,

reminders of times when I fought what I fought.

The ink can’t be erased, just overwritten, it seems,

like choices we make that unravel our dreams.

In the back of the drawer, it whispers to me,

that some things can’t vanish; they’re part of the key.