This little black notebook
Is almost full,
Each page covered in
Black ink scrawled verses and rhymes,
Drops of blood in the margins
Mixing with the ink as it dries.

An odd mixture of cursive and print
That would make any pharmacist
Scratch his head.

Memories and emotions,
Thoughts and despair.
Ideas and experiments,
Passions and Pain.
Captured forever by
A mystic binding spell
Of all nine muses.

Like all things
This notebook has an end.
Only so many pages in its binding,
Only so many things to be written.
But for every end there is a beginning,
And a new notebook to open.

4/2/18

My second poem for National Poetry Writing Month.