Ode to my Yellow Legal Pad

on its final page

this is it, my good friend:
your last throughs, yet i am still fighting -
scribbles are my fists and letters are the blood
that drums up

i wonder if you will be like
Keats's Grecian Urn: a telling of history
from an unknown poet (my name does not appear
on your pages, as jaundiced as tulips)
that is found under the rubble if my house
were to collapse on me - someone will write newspaper articles
about you! - of if that blood that harbours itself
in your pages drips out from me in wounds
from other (perhaps myself, though highly doubtful)

would you say such nice things about me?
and, moreso, would they believe them?

your leaves are filled with blackness
which began solely 17 days ago:
60 pages (or so) filled, your life cut short
by my ramblings, my scribbles -
if you had entrails they would be strewn
across hard desks and covered in black ink

i feel as if i murdered you for the sake
of my history, some fantacized "legacy"
in the form of indecipherable script

so for you, my dear friend, i weep
for i will miss your brightness
because without it, i would have to kill
something far less bright