Desire Is Two Sharpened Pencils

It's only a draft, I'm still working on it.

Desire is two sharpened pencils,
Full of potential for excellence,
Yet if pushed to the side
Will simply collect dust.

Over time desire will not rot
Like a once shiny apple.
Desire will sit and wait, and wait, and wait
Until the say it is picked back up,
And you know
That something spectacular will come out of it.

Desire can change from its original intent.
It can be looked over, revisited and revised.
Yet somehow, when you erase it and try to write over it,
What used to be is still visible
Ever so faintly in the background.

Finally, desire is under your control.
It can't do things without your fingers gently molded around it,
Meticulously controlling its every move.

Others can write over desire,
Smudge it,
Say that it just isn't as neat as pen.
Because pen is solid, concrete, and it doesn't have the room for change,
Or the risk of going down hill.

Yet you still hold onto it,
Even if you throw it in the bottom of your purse,
It's still there.

Desire can be broken by two frustrated hands
Or chewed on by nervous teeth.
But in the end,
It never lets you down.