Tuesday

My Yellow Pad

Bob Petersen

My little yellow pad,

You are so rad.

You record my dreams,

and deliver the scenes.

You have no eyes,

but you've seen.

You Hold True,

but can be read.

I trust you

with the thoughts in my head.

Every page is new,

An unknown voyage lay ahead.

A true friend in deed,

You are there, whenever I need.

My little yellow pad,

You are so rad.

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Allow me to compose myself (whew). That one took a lot out of me my followers. I sit here, you know, and contemplate how the brain works. Because for a moment, there could be no words in it, but then I focus, you know, and all of a sudden there are words. Even vivid colors and, you know, dance moves.

I'm not, you know, talking Dance, Dance, Revolution dance moves, but like Spanish Flamenco dance moves. Like Spanish, you know, from Spain. Not Spanish as in Mexican, you know, or Argentinian. Perhaps some Argentinian.

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"You're not making any sense. That's what makes this difficult. Are you purposefully. . . . "

"Sense is only what you make of it. You have your paradigm, and I have mine. You know there isn't much time left. This monster is ravaging my innards. I don't believe I've caused much for alarm."

"Perhaps. You know it's not just you though. I have my family to think about and care for. It's hard, I know I don't have to complain to you about hardships, but . . . "

"Do you hear that? Bells."