The Creator

Writers cramp,
Writers block,
are problems you'll endure,

Pick me up,
the yellow standard,
octogon for your fingers,

Creation has its price on me,
just carve my wooden casing,

Anal retentive writing whores,
Write thought until completion,

The letters expand,
My head is dull,
But yet I shall continue,

Break me in half,
and share with your neighbor,
For I am your creator,

Smudge the words,
With the end of my wand,
Wiped,
Then blown away,

These mistakes,
are nothing,
but food for a vacume,

Now when i've grown old,
and passed away,
Treat my brothers,
the very same way,

For seventy-two of us,
were born togeather,
We shall be known,
as number two forever.