I have a little note pad, new, with polka dots.
Teal green with border shiny gold and golden spots.
And since I’m one who writes to live and lives to write,
As soon as I beheld it, ’twas love at first sight.
There’s something mystical about a virgin page.
And notebooks filled with pages pure my soul engage.
It’s calling me, this tablet with gold polka dots.
But subject matter — what to write — I know not what.
Frustratedly, I sit here, holding pen in hand,
Seeking words to start a poem — something grand.
This primal urge to slather ink across the page
Is in control ’til its demands I can assuage.
It could take hours, or even days, but what care I?
So many times I’ve let whole days go drifting by,
Until my muse and I fin’ly came into sync,
And thus inspired, I filled each pristine page with ink.