He recycles his overflowing thoughts
like the devoid paper on which he writes,
overriddled with complex lines and quotes,
the yearned perfection still not in his sights.
He lies awake in a constant motion
like the lifeless pen that he can't replace,
trying to be pressing with emotion
he liftes the feelings and puts them in place.
He strains too hard to be wonderful and wise
like a brain disconnected to the heart,
he scrunches up the tarnished paper, sighs,
and gets a blank piece on which he can start.
When your recycle bin is overfilled
return to the old lines that you had quilled.
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