Written for my good friend, the writer.

Turning slowly, the blade gently grinds
Cutting an edge that could easily kill.
Lead obeys fingers causing friction at will,
Forcing thought from frantic minds.

Turning rapidly, the pages we spew.
Clearing the mind in attempt to convey,
But it all comes out jumbled, and to our dismay
The eraser removes marks but never the rue.

Turning wearily, as others think us daft
We write like hell to regain control
My skill since departed, the piece lost its soul.
Inspiration seems naught, we have only craft.

Turning gracefully, my thoughts to you
Whisper a prayer for the writer within;
Knowing our struggles are closely akin.
Espouse courage for the sake of virtue.