Piles of unfinished, unfilled, untold notebooks,
Stack high upon the stand,
Whispering their pleas deep into the night.


Write for me, if you will write at all, one begged,
For in I, you once wrote,
"I don't believe in good and evil,
It seems a heavy sort of burdance to put on four little letters."

My story is incomplete,
I am not done speaking,

Pick up your pen, and write again.


Nay, write for me, another argues,
For in I, you once wrote,
"Your worlds isn't in danger because I came, as you believe.
I came because your world is in danger."

My story is not over,
I am not done telling,

Pick up your pen, and write again.


Write for none other then I, a different insists,
For in I, you one wrote,
"Life's for the living, the laughing, the chance takers, the gamblers of love.
If you must obsess on one thing, as you surely do, then go live it."

My story has not ended,
I am not done talking,

Pick up your pen, and write again.


Whispering scrawls filled the night,
Overlapping, strangling one another,
Until all that could be heard,
Was the gentle breathing of pages.