I pull out my little book from my jacket pocket,
And open to a crisp new page,
Which softens with the fall of rain.
Then I pull out my pen from its sheath,
And click its top thrice to begin,
To write my masterpiece once again.
“This one will be better than ever,” I say,
And I scribble down the words,
And then ink just splotches on the page.
And the words are lost as soon as they appear,
Disperse with the falling drops,
But I keep moving towards the end.
And I finish up with a final dot,
And look at my page in disarray,
But perhaps it’s better this way.
