The legend of a real notebook

• I thought of this theme while I was handwriting a previous poem. I wondered what would happen if I lost my notebook? In the last 2 months or so I went back to handwriting my poems which I felt helped me brainstorm a whole lot more and bring much more depth and emphasis to my writings. I write about a vast array of topics which I think should be brought into art, but I never thought of someone actually looking through my work and reading my raw thoughts.

Verse 1:

The notebook is legend, real and deep

After much contemplation and lots of sleep

Sweet dreams come to him cheap

but the recollection is too expensive for him to keep

He wakes from his gentle bed

with ideas cultivating is his head

but the notebook isn’t anywhere in sight

frustrated and confused he has to start from scratch

wondering where he left it last?

 

Verse 2:

The notebook sat there unattended and alone

with no one to finish covering it’s lines with unfiltered and raw poems

As bystanders walk by, one of them asks whose notebook is that? “I think I know”

Skimming through pages a realization occurs, knowing that

It’s owner is quite comfortable with writing the “real” (You know, Everyday black injustice, drug abuse, mass shootings abortion, rape, society etc…)

He’s got rhymes to provoke ever nerve, after all stanzas are read a lessons learned

but his writings also has a sudden gaiety to them

I’ve watched him smile as a idea takes over his conscious

He meticulously writes each word

as it carries so much strength and density that it could drain distance ocean waves

so his words will be here to stay until he’s down 6 feet in a grave

a profound impact is left I must say!