Notebook

Ink stains paint my fingers,
Colourful smudges.
Tiny worlds contained inside paper.
Every story a hidden dream.
Nobody else has peered into my bliss,
The stories I have created with the tip of a pencil.
The cover may disguise it as a simple sketchbook,
But the outside has no idea its more.
This book is my nourishing rain that falls from the sky and quenches the thirst of the harsh drought below.
Gold rings loops through the spine,
Engaged with the paper.
It's cover a papery dark rectangle, with waves that crash furiously against rocks, and large white lettering that bears the words;
Still So Much To Sea.