So what happens when you sharpen a pencil to its edge?
It grows short, fragile—
And you toss it away, don’t you?
Yet, there's still lead inside.

No, wait—
Didn’t it endure the pain,
Every time the blade carved through its skin?
Layer by layer, stripped away,
Simply because it wasn’t perfect for you.

Every piece you discarded—
Wasn’t it once whole?
Once something that caught your eye?
Yet you whittled it down,
Made it useless,
And now, you call it nothing?

And then, just let go?
How is that fair?

You knew, didn’t you?
This was never about pencils.