As I sit in a Starbucks cafe, I start to wonder when my life went astray. Did I lose my religion, did I lose the vision? As I rack my mind for the correct decision, i execute my plan with uncanny precision.

A poem, of thoughts and glee, a poem all about you and me. Dear reader, where are idea's born? Are they made in the stars or the heavens so far? As we mourn the dead and new, ow do we store them, I beg of you, I do. Count to ten, then back to one, and now you see it has begun. we store emotions and thought, depression and angst, all in dear paper; inscribed with black ink.

We Think and we wonder, why life is all a blunder, and we all desperately pray for dear summer.

Now reader, stare at this page, it isn't all too grave.This is where idea's are born, how dreams are made. They start with pen and paper. So thank your English teacher, thank your mind, and thank your dear loose leaf, to let you make your mark in time.