A simple notebook rests dormant, Hungry for the written word. It craves for imagery, To sink its razor sharp teeth into narration. It longs to inhale the seductive fragrance of rhetoric, To feel the bitter ink flow through its veins. The carnivorous notebook lays in wait, To catch the writer off guard, Wishing to bite the hand that feeds. Its one hundred page appetite yearns, Crying to be satisfied.
this certainly sounds like an Ode of sorts. yet its not. i was wanting to see how good you truly are at poems.
This poem is good, but it makes me sad because it reminds me that I can't write this well. You are awesome.
