Intermittent scribbles in a brand new leather journal.
Hoping even just one line becomes something eternal.
Searching for the perfect words, or poignant points to make,
I lay there, thinking, three a.m, and I'm still wide awake.
Pretty rhymes to pass the time, if no soul ever reads,
I write these words for mockingbirds and fun, no thoughts of greed.
The verdant, rolling plains of the space within my skull,
Spill forth in excess on the page when life is feeling dull.
Words give life to drying ink, a pause between each line,
To choose the words which through the years remind me what is mine.
