notebook
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If the lined pages
Were a prison
Then the words
Were the prisoners
Whose sentences
Coffee-stainedAnd littered with ear-dogged pages,Oh, composition book;You were always my favorite.
Supportive, dependable, yet completely silent.
Tells stories of complete fiction and the happiest of memories
In a language only comprehensible to me.
There for me when I need to cry
I have many universes in my hands
They go beyond the limitations of this concrete world
My hands instead hold countless worlds crafted by graphite and sweat
I am like a notebook
with blank pages of uncertainty
and past mistakes never completely erased.
The spiraled edge will break with too much inside,
yet I can't add more space.
oh father
what has happenedto you?
what on earth stole from you your guitar?
and told you to stop singing to your baby girl?
oh father
theres a darkness that settles in your eyes thsese days.
