What used to be a barely broken-in biology notebook
Has become my soul on paper.
It has traversed thousands of miles,
Safely nestled in my heavy backpack,
From my tiny rock in the middle of the ocean
To Sin City herself.
It is badly battered, broken, and beaten,
Having survived my furious onslaughts of thoughts
Onto paper during my insomnious midnight escapades.
To others, the notebook is nothing but a disheveled, school-related, note-filled notebook.
To me, the memories of past loves, old heartaches, lost friends,
And old dreams are contained within its meticulously bound paper.
That notebook is my heart in writing,
My mind’s feeble attempts at creativity,
And my best friend.
It’s almost like my father,
With memories locked up inside its vaults,
Waiting to be unleashed to anyone
Who will listen.
It contains every thought I had once thought,
But have forgotten.
Every dream I had once dreamt,
But have forgotten.
Every idea I had once believed in,
But have forgotten.
It is me in the form of written word.
It is my notebook.