I look at these notebooks, scattered across the floor.
Looking through the pages, it's now a little past four.
What happened now, what influenced me then.
All of it came through from the ink of the pen.
I look from the old, and what was written now.
All of these inspirations and fears jotted down.
A mix of frustration and a dash of grace.
My mind slows down to a slower pace.
I read and find no end to it all.
But I can't remember why, nor can I recall.
Looking back, I'vr really writen alot!
Then I guess that I had just forgot.
Someday I'll learn to find an ending.
Whenever that is, may still be pending.
From the words of a "talented" writer and great self loather,
I guess there will be no real end now that this storyis over.