You're breathing

Your heart is beating

You've been eating

So does this mean you're living

Or just existing?

 

Well just because these words Rhyme

And these syllables keep time

Doesn't make this a poem at all

 

This is a poem because

that's what I'm calling it.

Not because of the rule book

I won't follow it

 

So just because air flows in and then out

And you're heart is pumping blood all about

That all doesn't make me just one of the crowd

 

The thing that I love the most

Is what makes me, me

And that thing that I love

Just happens to be

This ugly old book

I got for three bucks

Nobody wanted it

But Nobody is me

 

Now this book had no words

So I had to fill it

with my dreams and my hopes

And my grime and my grit

There are already a few hundred pages filled

And when I read my words I'm often quite thrilled

Not because they dance gracefully

But because they show me such happy memories.

This ugly old book has become my best friend

And I'll continue to write in it until the end

Of the pages that smell just like old people

Then I'll read again all about the Beatles

My new favorite band when I was fifteen

Or the boy on my bus

He was so freaking mean

 

This book is my most prized possession

Inside it are my every confession

Every lie every guilt

And all the happy stuff too

So old ugly book,

I can’t live with you