{"id":259,"date":"2016-01-28T14:00:34","date_gmt":"2016-01-28T20:00:34","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.nicholls.edu\/mosaic\/?p=259"},"modified":"2016-01-28T14:00:34","modified_gmt":"2016-01-28T20:00:34","slug":"pencil","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.nicholls.edu\/mosaic\/2016\/01\/28\/pencil\/","title":{"rendered":"Pencil"},"content":{"rendered":"
By Taylor Mitcham<\/em> When you push me down By Taylor Mitcham First Place of the David Middleton Poetry Award When you push me down hard, I leave behind a trail of thick black smoke on the straight one-way roads. I’m a vehicle to dreams and you think you are the driver, but it’s me who makes the paper comes to life. Hazy swirls […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":6,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"site-sidebar-layout":"default","site-content-layout":"","ast-site-content-layout":"default","site-content-style":"default","site-sidebar-style":"default","ast-global-header-display":"","ast-banner-title-visibility":"","ast-main-header-display":"","ast-hfb-above-header-display":"","ast-hfb-below-header-display":"","ast-hfb-mobile-header-display":"","site-post-title":"","ast-breadcrumbs-content":"","ast-featured-img":"","footer-sml-layout":"","ast-disable-related-posts":"","theme-transparent-header-meta":"","adv-header-id-meta":"","stick-header-meta":"","header-above-stick-meta":"","header-main-stick-meta":"","header-below-stick-meta":"","astra-migrate-meta-layouts":"default","ast-page-background-enabled":"default","ast-page-background-meta":{"desktop":{"background-color":"","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"tablet":{"background-color":"","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"mobile":{"background-color":"","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""}},"ast-content-background-meta":{"desktop":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-5)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"tablet":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-5)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"mobile":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-5)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""}},"footnotes":""},"categories":[19],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-259","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry"],"yoast_head":"\n
\nFirst Place of the David Middleton Poetry Award<\/strong><\/p>\n
\nhard, I leave behind a trail of thick black smoke
\non the straight one-way roads.
\nI’m a vehicle to dreams and you
\nthink you are the driver, but
\nit’s me who makes the paper comes to life. Hazy
\nswirls dance and as you take a sharp turn, I
\nbreak.
\nDon’t worry. You
\nfix me right up with your surgical blades.
\nI’m sharp and new again,
\nbecoming the source of all creation in a vast blank
\nsheet, filling the white spaces with creatures that make phonetic sounds when
\ncramped together.
\nYet sometimes
\nyou use me to create worlds without sound but full of
\nshades which move like a washer set on
\nhigh. Shaking the very earth with your
\nrealm of ideas.
\nThe things you use me for carry
\nweight.
\nToo heavy for the
\npage to contain.
\nSometimes
\nquivering heartbeats carry the wide spaced leaf to accepting
\nstrangers.
\nBut other times
\nthe creation becomes ripped to shreds and thrown in
\nthe black abyss where everything you used me for
\nis gone.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"