One.

The notebooks,

I filled them with ink;

These my dreams,

Written on the pages.

They never seem to be done,

And I,

Never seem to have time.

To pick up the pencil again,

Learn to hold a frame;

With my eyes,

Play more than a few strings,

Besides my shower and car, sing;

Not just for my hearing,

Using fabric markers in some item-making,

Finishing flour for some baking.

And all these,

To be more than just hobbies.

Till then,

Only one remains at hand;

To write.