NaPoWriMo #29: Pencil

I thought about myself as a cartoon character
who was never seen that much, sometimes
in the background when the heroes walked
toward their dates with dynamite, or in a rare
episode where I rang up their hotel rooms,
in a nervous, odd way.  I believed I could
find a way to tie the damsel to the tracks,
or rescue the chick from the mean coyote.
The animators would draw medals around
my neck, reward me with my own TV show.
Color would always fill me, alive on screen,
as I mooched off the eccentric millionaire
or beat out the cat or dog for pet of the year.
It would feel hollow to win, though, when
I know flesh and blood is out there, laughing,
only God controlling where they end up,
while a pencil moves us from cell to cell,
each one a square prison for our movements,
a place where we're not allowed to breathe.