Different strokes, different folks.

Chalk is short lived. Spelling my name consumes half the stick. Clumsy chalk, showing your true colors to the world so they can spread you thin on the pavement for their recreation.

Should I be more like a pen? Hiding my ink level to strike unknowingly. Work with me and I might surprise you with a line. You would probably toss me out and use another, reversing my plan.

Markers can be touchy, in its feelings. Bleeding its boldness onto the page and the next three behind it. Cloning my mistakes. Messy, predictable, too much.

Can I just be a pencil, rubbing my mistakes away till my butts flat, chasing my perfect point until I am no longer tall enough to ride anymore.