An Ode To My Empty Notebooks:
Oops.
Your blank pages weren’t meant to stay blank.
I meant to fill you with clever metaphors,
colorful similes, and imagery so beautiful
they would make a grown man cry.
You were supposed to house rejected drafts
of a novel soon to be.
I could blame college; I could blame work.
I could, but I can’t, because in between the
two, I have nothing but free time to write.
Instead, you rest in a pile on my desk,
silently hating me for rejecting you and
binging more Shameless on Netflix.
I want to be a New York Time bestseller.
I’m not sure how I’d accomplish that
when I hardly pick up a pen to write
at least the opening paragraph of a draft.
But, nevertheless, I call myself a writer.
“Have you written anything?” they ask.
“Of course,” I lie. Unless they count
research papers on Edgar Allan Poe,
I’ve written nothing.
One day, I’ll open you, and I’ll force
you to swallow some words.
You may hate them; you may wish for
dialogue while I force-feed you
forced descriptions written in haste.
But hey, at least I’ll be writing.
