Unwritten

My notebook is next to me as always. Bent and covered in drool. I did speak to myself but it was nothing but rambling and scrambling. My notebook is here with lines on the pages but the lines are wavering. I can’t write in the lines like they taught us in school. The pen is somewhere on this bed. Or maybe it scurried into a crevice. I have nothing to write with. I have nothing, but thoughts. I have no pen. So I have no choice but to shiver in bed.