This Pencil.

The pencil in my hand is never wrong,
it never lies to me like they do.
It helps me write my heart out,
whenever I want to shout.
It moves quickly across the page,
sketching my every thought.
A beautiful escape,
from this horrible world.
Reality is but a dream,
in my world of art.
Ghastly beings reside in my head,
overcrowding the edge of the thread.
I hand them over to my pencil,
it draws them perfectly,
not an error visible to the human eye.
Not a speck of doubt,
in the back of my mind.
This thin pencil,
is the reason why I still remain sane.
Until the very end,
this pencil will be there to write out my life.
Blood pouring onto these pages,
in the form of pencil lead.
Getting all the images,
out of my head.