I look at these notebooks, scattered across the floor.

Looking through the pages, it's now a little past four.

What happened now, what influenced me then.

All of it came through from the ink of the pen.

I look from the old, and what was written now.

All of these inspirations and fears jotted down.

A mix of frustration and a dash of grace.

My mind slows down to a slower pace.

I read and find no end to it all.

But I can't remember why, nor can I recall.

Looking back, I'vr really writen alot!

Then I guess that I had just forgot.

Someday I'll learn to find an ending.

Whenever that is, may still be pending.

From the words of a "talented" writer and great self loather,

I guess there will be no real end now that this storyis over.