sketchbook

my thoughts flow like rushing rivers

out of my feelings and into the waters

jet black ink on a crisp white page

something they’ll never understand

i dream of future and i dream of life

beyond this cycle, with blessed meaning

but it’s all monochrome, just sketches

not a droplet of sparkling coloured joy

i’m missing a ripped page and a half

of not only my mind but also my heart

should I make it my purpose to find it

or is it destiny, for it to only burn?

but no matter how many unfinished

no matter how many merely attempted

i close each drawing in my bruised fist

and hold them close, eyes welled with tears

every memory is recorded by my hand

rough and hazy in its fading glory

it’ll all likely never be fully complete

but nevertheless, they remain on the paper