He sat on the cold, wooden floor,
His only source of light a dim lamp outside
He was shivering from the cold but that didn't matter
As long as his words were given life
The quiet sound of the pen hitting the paper
The notebook being the only thing he owned
Yet so treasured
A portal to the past
Some pages were torn
Seen as useless
But so truly beautiful
As they gave character to the brown notebook filled with nonsense
Exhausted with his work
He fell asleep in the middle of a word
The pen slowly tracing a line down the page
Only for it to be found, another reason to shame the boy
For that he is different
Some of us start young (this one feels so unfinished tbh)