What's in my journal

Something more than words
blot across a page
tears, laughter, hope, fear
frozen in a black or blue or leaden moment
usually, now, not lead, not graphite
smeared and wrought into
a web of something more than a story
than a fact, than me
but it is me, pouring,
flowing like the ink from the pen
as it caresses,
streaks naked truth
across the egg shell paper
bound in hidden staples or cream threaded ties
I confess, I confess, I confess
my sins commingle with my dreams
and possibility is fact, is written
in will
and the melodic songs chorded
in the scales of sorrow
noted, punctuated with a Rest,
and quiet in the hush of ceremonial
burial under a pillow, or the bottom
of a crepe papier box,
faded purple
stuffed in a thicket of other shoebox memories
cobwebbed and forgotten
in the attic
in my head.

Content Copyright 2011. Ami Lovelace. All Rights Reserved.