I carry an old notepad still thick with paper
Some sheets already dripping with emotion and words
Words written with either fancy or chicken scratch letters
Only a precious few I share with the world.
Sometimes, my mind gets tired,
Exhausted of rhyming and filtering
I turn the pages, and work my pen
But my hand writes something else.
Some blessed times, I get the ideas flowing
The words to form, flow and weave into the pages
But then, a sudden and stray thought would come too
To disrupt focus, and direct attention someplace else.
Some words are a waste of the ruled sheets
Some letters are a waste of my blue ink
Despite this, I put the pen to the paper
Write, read, cross out, smooth out any kinks.
I have a notepad, half-filled with words
Half of the poems are only half done
Half of those are only half-hearted
But among the other half, I found this one.