In fall I bought a pack of twelve,
Thinking it would be enough;
I use them hardly ever, so I should
Be just fine.

The black ink etches itself onto the page where it forever remains,
Reminding me of all the things in life I cannot undo.
Scribbles cover my mistakes poorly,
Like people cover their flaws that they desperately hide from their loved ones.
I curse its indelibility and crack my cramping wrist, wanting to turn in a clean, perfect paper;
Just as those hiding their mistakes try to do to impress others,
But nothing is hidden forever, the paper will always be messy.

But perhaps that is the key;
Mistakes show effort to do what's right and reveals that we are only human.
The cycle of scribbles and cramps echoes
Throughout the year, a routine all too familiar
Until spring comes.

Now the twelve have turned to one,
The rest have either run their course,
Dried out like the lives of those who have been lost
or have disappeared into some mysterious abyss.
Twelve is never enough; their lives are short lived
Yet by some force of divine intervention
Or just plain stupidity,
I will buy twelve more, thinking it will be enough
Even though it never is.