27th April 2009

In hope of finding something to write on,
all I have is a pad of sticky notes.
In hope of trying to keep my writing neat,
I’m just failing, writing much like a font that I somewhat remember.

Oh hell, I laugh; using a few coins simply to purchase a writing implement.
My hand smudges the words on an impeccable yellow square.
We come to a halt and I simply wonder, do I keep going?
Do I keep writing in tiny letters on small squares?
Why is it so unnaturally quiet?
Mother always told me I was quite a handful,
and here I am, listening to my Anberlin;
watching people carrying bags of goods.

The sun warms my feet,
and I wonder how I can listen to the same tunes for weeks.
Perhaps a bit too lazy, or too scared,
to be like an epic freak and take out,
this solid rectangle I call a Notebook.
In fear that I’ll drop it, perhaps.

The sun ought to burn it, I ought to ruin it.
My hand keeps smudging the ink on a square of yellow -
Hell, why didn’t I bring a paper notebook?