I sit at my desk with a sausage shaped spine,
my studio's cluttered and so is my mind.
Typed papers, garbage and final copies I find,
a cluttered desk; a cluttered mind.
I flip through the papers from the front to the back,
the pages of my story aren't in order
Oh, what a wreck.
I look around and what's this I see? About the person sitting next to me
Their desk is empty, now what a find,
Could an empty desk mean an empty mind?
There it is, an original Heather Nesmith from 1988 when I was in the 6th grade. I sure hope I've gotten better with age ;)