I have a notebook filled with paper,
And the paper is filled with words.
Many of them hold no meaning,
And precious few I share with the world
I work my mind but tire of rhyming.
I work my pencil, but it makes no sense.
Once I get a nice rhythm going,
One stray thought changes the course of events
My words are a waste of paper.
My poetry is a waste of time.
I try to make words beautiful,
But nothing flows from my mind.
I have a notebook half filled with poetry.
Some of them are only half done.
Half of those are only half hearted,
And among those I found this one.