HB
by Nicole Kassimiotis, Lauriston Girls School
Years 11 – 12 Written Poetry Finalist
Hard Black, the box insisted.
I only ever knew it by its initials.
The story never started with the point.
It began at the wrong end-
with the HeartBeat hidden beneath cedar,
where graphite waited,
holding every story
before it knew its own ending.
People think a pencil writes.
It doesn’t. It listens.
To the silence between phone calls.
To rooms that become too large for one person.
To the empty chair at dinner.
To the quiet things children notice
before they have words for loneliness.
It stayed beside unfinished homework,
shopping lists, half-written stories.
Patient.
Never asking me to explain.
Each sharpening was called improvement.
The blade kissed away another layer,
and I realised writing works the same way-
you shave thoughts down
until they become something
another person can hold.
Graphite disappears
only by leaving itself behind.
A strange equation: the less of it remains,
the more it leaves behind.
Perhaps people are like that too.
Years later,
I reached for another pencil.
Not because I still needed saving-
but because somewhere,
another child might need
what mine once gave me.
So I wrote
about courage disguised as ordinary days,
about kindness that asks for nothing in return.
Not because stories can erase loneliness,
but because they can sit beside it
until it feels a little less heavy.
The pencil grew shorter again.
Not because it was being lost-
but because it had finally discovered
what it was made for.
Perhaps every pencil dreams
of becoming a story.
Not to be remembered.
Not to sit, perfectly sharpened, inside a porcelain cup.
But to disappear, quietly, into the hands of a child
who will never know that every page they turn
was once someone else’s way
of surviving.
Perhaps that is all graphite has ever been-
a little HB,
passed from one hand to another,
until HeartBreak forgets its own name
and answers instead
to hope.
How did writing this poem make you feel?
This poem made me appreciate how ordinary objects can hold extraordinary meaning. I started writing about a pencil, but I gradually realised I was really writing about memory, resilience and the quiet ways creativity can help us navigate difficult moments. Reflecting on my own experiences reminded me why I wrote my children’s book: not to tell my story, but to create one that might make another child feel seen. Writing the poem left me feeling grateful that something as simple as a pencil can become a symbol of both heartbreak and hope.
Which single line in your poem are you the absolute proudest of?
‘Graphite disappears only by leaving itself behind.’
I’m proudest of this line because I think it captures the central idea of the poem, writing helped me turn difficult experiences from my childhood into something tangible and meaningful. There’s also a paradox in it that I really like the pencil gets smaller as it writes, but what it leaves behind becomes permanent. In a way, that reflects how writing allowed me to let go of parts of what I was carrying without pretending they never happened.
Describe your poem in three words
Heartbreak, graphite, hope.
Where is your absolute favourite place to sit when you are brainstorming ideas?
Probably somewhere quiet. I tend to get my best ideas when I’m not deliberately trying to come up with them, so I love sitting somewhere with a notebook and just letting my thoughts wander. A lot of my writing starts with one small image, object or phrase and develops from there – which is actually how the pencil became the central metaphor of this poem.
What skills do you think you strengthened through writing this poem?
Writing this poem strengthened my ability to look beyond the obvious and find meaning in everyday objects. It encouraged me to use symbolism and imagery to express personal experiences in a way that others could connect with, without needing to explain everything directly. I also developed my skills in choosing precise language, trusting the reader to interpret the deeper meaning, and refining each line so that every word contributed to the poem’s emotional impact.
Why do you think people write poetry?
I think people write poetry because some emotions are too complex for ordinary language. Poetry allows us to slow down, notice the small details, and find meaning in experiences that might otherwise be difficult to explain. It can preserve memories, transform pain into something beautiful, or simply help us feel less alone. For me, poetry is less about having the perfect words and more about discovering truths that only reveal themselves once they’re written down.