Journal Poems - Poems about Journal

He found the journal on the train Of a young little girl with no name He sat there reading through her thoughts Of dragons and Lions in their mighty roars Or the golden apple that was caught Each page filled with dreams Some fairytales with glorious queens While other thoughts circled around the naive plots Then he found her wish of becoming an...

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Too many bruises to recall the story of my scars. Surviving all these disasters: an invaluable blessing. Remaining whole in this jungle where liars, hypocrites, and impostors thrive. No joy in shining through cowardice, submission, and betrayal. A procession of zealous traitors, blinded by hatred. Always on edge since the placenta, like a child soldier forced to adapt to human savagery. Most of my wounds are invisible. Sometimes forced to accept the darkness of my shadows. A gesture of charity to hope for...

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So... today I begin my journal. Where do I begin? How do I begin? Without, within... the confines of a page, like a prison wall the surrounds my thoughts. "You must color within the lines" I recall my kindergarten teacher instructing us, otherwise we won't graduate and move on to first grade. And at 58, that merciless and...

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Reading your words, your poems, your feelings, it makes me hurt more than any physical beatings, it was a glimpse in your mind, all your madness, I read about your love, heartbreak and sadness, I see a glimpse of your broken past, all the pain and aching you didn't broadcast. I understand now, why you are the way you are, why...

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Dates and their import I was raised to revere them they are true benchmarks of a mineral rich load littered with capsules of time...

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The story of a Criminal Grandma Not a good one A crime spree old lady One that is witty, Grandma Dynamite An Old lady who robs and steals She uses dynamite to explode Stealing from banks Never saying thanks Even Police warrants her arrest Grandma Dynamite has a way to contest It’s all about steal She doesn’t conceal Grandma Dynamite follows through on her robbing desire It’s dynamite...

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Autism is always a hard pill to swallow, Like planting a bullet on the skull Drifted from life's wonders As if I've slipped away. Stigmatized like a cockroach And knocked back from footy. With my body soiled and discoloured Embarrassed and humiliated on the face. Mama asked me about school Hoping it was okay, Yet its darkness doesn't fade away Like living in the bull pit...

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"Although I'm familiar with the art of poetry, no one has inspired my muse to inscribe my own journal. - so I placed my soul in her hands." Silent One I used to be a journal, daily dips of ink dripped deep into my dilapidated soul. Supporting sorrows of the one who wrote with endeavour, 'letting go,' of the blackness, infested within her veins. Endless...

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My heart is like an open book That only she can write in it A journal difficult to open More like a lock with no key Yet she opened it easily My heart never gathered courage To tell her how I feel inside Yet I have been in love with her Before she knew me My heart is like a dungeon Holding my feelings hostage Waiting...

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Pirouetting through the pages of my mind, placing inked pathways elegantly timed...

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a life’s work encapsulated in poetry wisdom wrought through forgiveness and acceptance bitter-sweet moments endured and embraced the journal is nearing completion it lies open in her gnarled hand the old pencil stub, now blunt gossamer petals of the wintersweet drift onto the page its sweet scent in the air ...

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You have followed me from childhood to adulthood always by my side you touching my hand started a fire within heart my hidden passion my thoughts and feelings you've captured on your pages my words captivate tattered torn and bruised you escort me to readings as spectators snap others have touched you but they can't...

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In a nearby village, a man unfurled his manifesto of machinations. Shotgun blasts echoed the summit until he turned, cheeks flashing in the biting cold. A bouquet of flower petals, explosive roses frozen in time, sculpture at the snap of one’s fingers....

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laughing sun rises, writing its shadow stories in forest journals ...

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The summer fog has not yet lifted from the enclave. The candyfloss glow of the sun suspended above the horizon of the valley in the Jock of the Bushveld Concervancy where I have made my new home reflects on the ghostly blue of the dam in front of my house. early morning dense fog blanket-- burn...

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