The Journal

          The Journal


Long-labored over and lost for good.
Even after ripping and tearing,
through possible hiding places.
Now I feel both stupid and cheated.

They made a difference to me.
Those newborn innocent words.
I was more concerned about showing off,
than caring for my written child.

Did they leave a mark?
Did they fill a void even if I can't remember?
Will they be seen or claimed by another,
these sparrow words now fallen?

I was careless like a neglectful parent.
Please care for them, you who find them.
I grieve the very real feelings they gave.
I accept the fact it will not be returned.

With shame and self-loathing I write,
"Lost : Writing Journal- please call ",
with a number to inquire.

Feeling like a dead-beat parent,
Dreding a call that might never come,
I try to keep myself occupied,
Ignoring, pen, paper, and keyboard.

A gentle knock on my door...
"Hello.  believe this is yours"
There is my child,
wounded, pathetic, dirty...torn.


My face feels hot and feverish.
Like a first date gone backwards,
And wring, horribly wrong.

I retrieve it from the polite man,
wearing the orange jumpsuit,
who drives and fills the Grim Reaper
of unwanted garbage.

The butter-soft leather now stinks,
as badly as my conscience.
I hope the paper inside will forgive,
and accept my words.


By: Kimarie Freeman