A notebook holds my soul,
The pencil fills it up,
With thoughts and songs, and poems.
I write and write and write,
To fill my soul,
And empty my mind.

I fill the pages,
With scribbles and scrawls,
With drawings and diagrams,
And lists.
I fill the pages,
‘Till they can take no more,
Then I write around the edges,
And sign my name at the bottom.

I write ‘till the moon shines,
Lighting the pages,
Overflowing with words,
With feelings, emotions, and poems,
With stories and sunsets,
And the wars of the world,
Pages and pages,
Of people and things,
Flowers and doves,
And oceans and seas.

And I write ‘till I can’t,
‘Till my arm is bursting,
With pain, effort, and all the things,
In my notebook

My notebook is full,
Full to the covers,
Everywhere is scribbled on,
Written on, with the words
Of my soul.
I have to find a new one,
And start over,
And write about anything,
And everything,
In poems, scribbles and scrawls,
In drawings, diagrams and lists.
I’ll write ‘till I fill that one up,
Full to the covers,
Then I’ll start over,
With a blank notebook.

My notebook.