Victor, in the street and in the rain,

Placed his hat back on again.

A brown paper bag, in his hand, holding something new

A notebook, for notes, which only Victor would view.

To conclude his stroll, he opened the door,

And took his shoes off as he always had done before.

He took of his coat, his gloves, and his hat,

And walked to his work desk, to where he then sat.

See, Victor is a writer, who writes wonderful things,

Work which with its structure, form, and elegance, it sings.

He writes about horror, or philosophy, or complete nonsense,

Each word you read, whether thoughtful or silly, is quite a performance.

O Notebook, O Notebook,

What shall I write?

Asked Victor, several times through the night.

For he couldn't think of a thing to put down,

So he sat there for hours with his hands on his crown.

Now finally, whence morning had broke,

Something within his tired mind had awoke.

And quickly, he jotted down a first line,

And from this a new story, to himself, he assigns.

One after another the lines started to flow,

There was no telling how long this would go.

The lines turned to bricks, to build up this story,

Of Glory, subjects so gory, or another category.

Now Victor had finished his piece,

And blessed himself with the sweet release,

Of going to bed and resting his head,

For on the page there was nothing more to be said.

O Notebook, O Notebook,

What more can I write?

Asked Victor, beginning the next night,

For I wrote all that's capable of my mind,

No new thought or feeling that I can find.

But, he opened his book anyway,

Hoping to find some ideas from the previous day.

Only to find the book fresh and white,

Nothing remained of his markings last night.

Am I mad or insane? Something wrong with my brain?

Please I beg, can some god tell me why nothing remains?

I vividly recall last night in total,

Not once do I remember throwing this page into disposal.

He stood back astounded, 

Perhaps his mind was clouded.

So he decided that this night there would be no writing,

For the newly purchased notebook, it no longer seemed inviting.

O Notebook, O Notebook

What did I write?

Did anything I remember really happen last night?

I know I wrote something, it must have been true,

Nevermind that, this time I'll do something no one can undo.

Victor, now tore the pages in half down the middle

Its ability to display work he did cripple.

Now this is something that cannot be ignored,

Nothing like this could be surely restored.

And in a mood of bottled-up rage,

He stepped away from the page.

Took out a pipe, one so fine,

And to his armchair, on which he reclined.

But a dream so terrible did he dream,

A dark hallway, a ghostly figure, and a bloodcurdling scream.

He tossed and turned, and sweat, and cried

No respite in his dreams, did poor Victor find.

O Notebook, O Notebook,

There's no point to write,

Nothing I put down shows up the next night,

My mind has gone mad and my eyes know no sleep

All I write, and create, I cannot keep.

Beginning the next morning, a knock at the door

A worried nieghbor arrive and right on the floor,

Lie Victor curled up in a ball oh so tight,

The nieghbor could sense something was wrong in this sight.

He crouched down to check, 

The vein on Victor’s neck,

Only to find to his pure horror,

That Victor's pale skin had gone so much colder.

But to the corpse’s left something lay scattered,

A notebook, scribbled, and tattered.

With one page of a well thought-out poem, lovely and neat

And the rest of the book, torn up, every sheet.

O Notebook, O Notebook,

Why did someone waste and not write?

I'll call the police and set this alright.

So when the man returned to his home, up to his room,

He wrote in his notebook, about all this gloom.