An eraser has one job,
Clean up mistakes,
Make everything better,
Fixes things at when they are at the worst.

Mistakes on paper are one thing,
But real world mistakes are different,
For those we have no erasers,
No fixing,
No making better,
It lives forever.

A pencil mark on paper,
Can be reversed with ease,
The pencil we put on us and on others,
Stays forever,
When we write on ourselves,
We cannot take it back,
Our pencil marks define who we are,
And make permanent indents on our skin.

The mistakes we put on a paper,
Are no big deal,
The mistakes we put on ourselves,
Can last forever,
And live to haunt us,
But the minute our mistakes affect someone else,
The minute we step outside our bubble,
When we mess up someone else’s life,
That is when we need to stop.

The marks on our skin,
May last forever,
And stay with us,
We cannot erase them,
But we have to learn,
We have to take those mistakes,
And make something better,
If we don’t learn from our mistakes,
We cannot go anywhere.

When we die we can turn in papers,
Full of mistakes,
Full of errors,
Or,
We can turn in our papers,
Where the mistake is made once or twice,
Our writing improved,
The learning evident,
And we can know,
That we did it all without assistance,
From that blasted, controlling pink eraser.