My pencil dances
across the page.
The lines it leaves
in its wake,
seemingly unconnected,
begin
to join hands
and form
something bigger.
They let
my world
become real.
Obscure
ideas,
an old
fairytale,
or maybe
a myth.
I spill my thoughts,
hopes,
and dreams
into that
dancing pencil,
and it
will choreograph
accordingly.
It’s
a delicate
dance.
So easy
yet
so hard.
It twirls
elegantly
to its own
rhythm.
I mustn’t
let
its flow
be disrupted.
I want to make
this dance
endless.
-Holly Ward, freshman