I write with the darkness of my soul.
Whether I’m happy or not,
But my head cleans my error for your peasantry vision
just to prove I’m perfect to you
Though my heart decreases each time I pour it out, but my permanence remains with every book I touched only if my head does not visit back.
I draw your imagination out of your head, giving you meaningful words the mouth can not describe
I am pencil but am not perfect and neither my head can function without me.