Have all the words been spoken,
Have i used up all the space,
Given to me to fill with words?
Will the former words never be erased?
Or will they give me endless buckets,
For my everlasting word flow?
I’m not scared of getting buckets,
But what if my flow of words run slow?
What if I never fill a fountain pen,
Or half the notebooks I’ve bought?
Will I one day stare at pale skies,
And find that I have not even one thought?