The friction between graphite and paper.
Its drag on the paper a catharsis, like digging for secrets
through rock laden earth.
An easily broken trowel
still capable of excavating caverns
long covered over by the soil of denial.
The sounds of it like the plaguing questions we spare answering
for we still aren’t ready to hear the truth.
The hiss of roiling pots on a stove throwing water upon the flames
attempting to douse them.
The staccato of nagging realities
The swoop of a blotted memory
The scritch of all that haunts your mind when sleep is due.
But also,
The call to slow down, and release this weight within you
before you sink through the silt.
The Mewriginal 
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