Each day is my writing pad,
I carve letters through my routine,
Some days sound the same
But every page remains different.
Some days don’t speak at all,
While some days sing a song,
Some end up getting torn,
When I trundle on their edges
To test at what point do I fall
Out of my notebook.
I dance along its red lines,
And stop between two notes,
I hang on the blue line
That disappears into the skyline.
I wade through the space
That I often find
At the beginning of a day,
And then tuck me up at night
Into a bed full of pens,
Of colors that run wild
And paint all my pages,
One by one
My leaflets die,
But the leaves leave
Lessons to be learned,
Chapters to be read.
Every dawn is a promise –
Blank pages of possibilities
That I fill with my fancies in cursive.
I only lift my pen
To count my blessings.
I am grateful to be alive
With an empty book every day,
While many have shut their eyes
And all their writing books.