Wanderlust

I sailed atop my blank, empty notebook,

On a globetrotting journey that I undertook.

My pen bled and became the deep, treading sea

As I pondered and wondered what I ought to be.

I was the scribe of my sprouting, sick story,

Eagerly dotting, crossing, and wording in glory.

Bobbing along the inked savage sea,

I pondered and wondered what I ought to see.

The shallow sea settled and steadily subdued.

My notebook was full and all the lines were blued.

An idea for a story had written itself just for me,

Yet I still wonder and ponder what I ought to be.