Your dick is a pencil, the tip is the lead
Your scribble inside them then take them to bed
Your mouth is an inkwell that holds onto words
You spill each letter like songs from birds
Your hand is an eraser that caresses and cleans
Your touch has the power to make them all queens
Your body a machine spitting out copy after copy
Duplicating one-liners, an attempt to feel cocky
In fifty years there are so many rough drafts
You give them red lines to refine your crafts
You use them and mark them up by the reams
Not one of them worthy to fulfill all your dreams
Each paper flawed so you feel you must edit
Collecting a stack for your own line of credit
The pieces once whole, it’s now time to shred
Tiny strips of themselves after being misled
So you wad them up and you throw them away
You save some to recycle on another day
The best of those drafts blew away in the wind
Unfortunately every story must come to an end
After you tear out a page from a novel
It can’t be replaced if you beg and you grovel
Great stories are not worth the hearts that you took
Because people are not papers in a book
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