I was never much in love with you, Five Star notebook.
Pure pages lay there like warriors lacking orders- all power, no purpose.
Bare lines fill you like European tour guide chatter- all instruction, no inspiration.
I dreamt of plowing through stories of fallen angels, cheerful vampires, and blind zombies,
But you prefer my mother’s hasty scrawl of Coke, pretzels, and Herbal Essence shampoo.
I dreamt of telling the world why Tammy never collected her lottery prize,
but you prefer my baby brother’s awkward stick figures.
I wanted your college-ruled guts to be published like Emily Dickinson’s poems,
yet no one would publicize grocery lists, poor doodles, and blank pages.
I wanted your precious innards to be famous like Tom Cruise,
yet no one finds crazy gold when the work isn’t done.
I wish Honors English III gave me less To Kill a Mockingbird homework,
so my pencil could conquer your sheets like a Joseph Stalin.
I wish my hands moved as quickly as my attention wondered,
so fairy-tales would pop out of me as fast as Flash.
I wish Mom had given me a seventy page instead of a five subject notebook,
so you were as easy to fill as an anorexic.
You are content with being pushed aside for band concert practice.
You are content with collecting grey grime under my Entertainment Weekly magazine.
You are content with being half worthless scrap and half empty.
I was never much in love with you, Five Star notebook.