Fleeting Thoughts

I pick up a pencil, its tip dulled and grey,

graphite whispers secrets I can’t chase away.

Thoughts linger like shadows, too heavy to pin,

yet they dance on the paper, where ideas begin.

Dark scratches emerge, a reflection of me,

a blueprint of chaos, wild and unfree.

Each line that I trace holds a tremor of truth,

fleeting and light, yet weighted with youth.

In the stillness of night, thoughts flutter and sway,

but I scribble them down before they drift away.

This old friend, the graphite, brings comfort and strife,

turns scribbles to whispers that breathe into life.