Pencil

Putting this story on paper is like a pencil in a fresh wound.
It won't change the way sunflowers search for light.
You won't lose sleep.
It will not change the way the wind blows.
And you won't feel regret.
So will this heart stop aching after the words roll of these lips?
Will I be able to breathe again?
Should this even be shared like a lovers kiss or put down to earth, till it flows away with early raindrops.
They say time heals all wounds,  but no one told me about the sharp pencil.