The notebook pages wax poetic
Ink stained lines metaphoric
Thoughts that echo from within
Lines lovingly scripted
From which spirits are lifted
And light is shone on every sin.
Though be it read between pages
Some words absent from phrases
Nonsensical in the way it lays
Pages sit unfinished
Thier meanings diminished
Much like me in many ways.
And much like these pages
There are many stages
In life that bare empty words
Too many things started
From which I have parted
Left hanging in temporal prose.
So when I look back
On my intimate track
I'll need no convincing for sure
That it too will end up...
I was writing ideas and notes down in my little notebook and when I flicked through I noticed how many "unfinished" pages there were. Made me reflect a little, so I wrote this one for fun and just to loosen my thoughts some. Enjoy.
