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