There’s a man that sits on a bench.
He has his small notebook that he cast his thoughts into like a fishing line.
He’s trying to catch all the reasons he’s ******* up so he can gut them into chum, lure sharks and jump in with them because he know they won’t eat something that is already dead.

There’s a man that sits on a bench.
he has his small notebook that he hides his secrety into.
It’s no vault, but he keeps it close to his chest, clutched by the undying insecurity that someone might sneak in.
He would lock it inside his ribcage but he can’t remember who he gave the key to…

There’s a man that sits on a bench.
He has his small notebook that he paints his mind onto.
He has his black pen, it is his brush.
He narrates the paintings artists haven’t made yet,
puts meaning behind his dreams and makes sculptures out of his pain, chiseled away with the positivity that he could turn something ugly, beautiful.

There is a man that sits on a bench.
He closes his notebook.
He gets up, and he stretches his limbs.
He walks away, wondering
what will i write next.