I tried mechanical pencils for a while. \ Sure, their tip was always sharp \ and left clean lines; But I pushed too hard, as I usually do, \ and after months of effort \ I realized that regardless of my efforts \ My hand was already used to my old Staedtler HB pencil. It fits into the skin between my thumb and index, \ resting on the callus worn into the side of my middle finger, \ crawling the nooks and crannies of the pages of my mind \ like a curious adventurer. It's become my closest friend, and though I naively try to control it, \ It's gone through the same struggles \ and grown as much as I have, \ and it runs across my page and I find myself reading words I never would have spoken. \ I question if the thoughts are even mine, \ Or if they belong to this Staedtler HB pencil; \ which one of us is the vessel and which one is the tool. For a while I was worried about this callus. \ Anyone who looked closely would be shocked at its size. But the callus, \ Like the pencil \ Or these ideas that it bleeds onto the page with its narrow graphite finger, \ Might be more me than I will ever be. I find myself in the paper, \ wondering why I ever considered \ using a mechanical pencil.