Works spend hours being gleaned.
Notes, notes galore.
As ideas in my mind sore.
Notes on stickies. Notes on shreds.
Notes that can’t be read.
Notes about notes.
Notes in a journal that I tote.
Notes on napkins.
But not on my skin.
Notes about notes, to help me remember.
Before my ideas become a dying ember.
I have discovered I can ask the notes on my phone to read to me.
This fills me with glee.
Has what I’ve written made sense?
Or should I throw it over a fence?
Notes, notes everywhere.
Throw them away? Should I dare?
What if an idea of an idea, brings forth a new thought I can share?
Throw them away? Should I care?
Take pictures of my notes.
Too many pictures, my phone I will smote.
I must be smart. I must be wise.
A plan for my notes, I must devise.
Poetry & More 