The notebooks are lined up on my shelf
Each filled with scrawls of words
Spilled out by my pen
I've always written out of anger
No one listens, but the paper soaks it all in
My only coping mechanism is my hand
But now there's another notebook
Filled with sweet memories,
And perfectly happy instances
And on the cover of this, a title
I've given this happy notebook a name
And it's named after you