The Grumbles of Things

What if things could speak their mind,

The pencil would shout when it's in a bind.

"Stop misusing me!" it would cry,

Frustrated with errors that make it sigh.

Fuming when sharpeners take away more,

With each little shave, it would grumble and roar.

The eraser would sulk, in shadows it'd hide,

As it wears down, it feels bruised inside.

"Don't spin me like a toy!" it would plead,

Tears rolling down as it starts to bleed.

The book would scold with a voice like thunder,

When pages are ripped, it can't help but wonder.

"Don't fold me up into a plane,

I'm wisdom, not fodder for children's game!"

The dustbin grumbles, with anger displayed,

At scraps and debris, all carelessly laid.

"Why am I left to bear this dismay,

Torn bits of dreams that you throw away?"

So listen close, to what things might say,

Respect their work, their role each day.

For in each object, a story we find,

If only we paused to hear their mind.

                                  - Akila Martin