Journal Poems | Examples

Journal

Journal

Thank you father God 
Every day is a brand new day
Thank you for a roof over our head and food to eat
Thank you that you stand by us when things look bleak
We may let ourselves fall 
But your love always comes through
We would not survive if itwas not
For you
Always giving
Always forgiving 
We are not worthy 
But yet you love us still  Amen

Lamentations 3 : 23
His mercy is new 
Every morning  Amen

A 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 astronaut 

The space and the aliens 
And the unknown universe and battalions
The growing thought until he dropped the journal
The last page now jingled
Leaving him with a curios mind
Just like a child and the memories that bind

A Journal on Profundity

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 foreboding warning I would for anything trade.
So here, in the ether of my thoughts and the confines of ruled paper all is transformed from lined prison bars to the revelation of an inmate who upon receiving his baptism by the Holy Spirit proclaiming... "thank God for prison... for now, I am truly free!"
And as I stare deep into the fragments of this modern papyrus the lines and spaces that confine me begin to escape and I enter through pupil of the "Magic Eye".  
It reveals a new world where I have communion with God... and receive the wisdom I desire. 
To journal... is to pray...

Journal Of Journey

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

GRANDMA DYNAMITE JOURNAL

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 acting like fire
Her voice always says,” STAND BACK”
She has a spreadsheet having a numerous criminal track
Grandma Dynamite might capture one’s heart from the start
Take it from Police, she knows how to make her mark
She gets what she steals
Dynamite becomes the Police ordeal
Grandma Dynamite is known around the world
Grandma Dynamite being a criminal celebrity
Explosions in the aftermath.

The Autistic Journal

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 of Sam Hill.

Then I get angry and fond of the bottle
Having nothing but doubt and shame,
As if suicide is a way out of the pain
And lifting the pressure off my chest.

WONDERING HEART

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 to be discovered

Journal

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

The Scent of Words in the Air

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

My journal

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 separate us 
we have a true bond 

our relationship is written in poetry

The story of your stuff poetry contest 
Jaymee Thompson
 7/31/24

Journal Entry

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.

shafts of gentle

laughing sun rises,
writing its shadow stories
in forest journals

Satirical Journal Entry 1 Attempting Suicide: Just The Beginning

Satirical Journal Entry #1
Attempting Suicide:
Just The Beginning!
If I killed myself today would anyone notice? Would anyone be at my 
funeral?
If so, would they come just ot give themselves peace(piece) of mind over 
all the things they took from me?
I guess better late than never!
Hmmm..........
A corpse could always use a loan or a shoulder to cry on.
I wonder how I would be dressed?
Ah....... maybe somehow right before I die I could mangle my face so my casket would stay closed.
-Less opportunity for more disappointment that way.
If I killed myself today all chaos in my mind would end.
I would be in hell for sure 
but I know that all this torture on earth would be forgotten.
Yet one question still remains.
Is it worth the damnation?
Yes! I am a selfish !

Journal

It’s just pages.

It’s just days.

And “sorry, I forgot to journal days.”

I write about how good it was.

I write about fall leaves and scribble it out.

I write about how embarrassed I am all the time.

What a whimsical thought, I just wrote.

That no one will ever see, 

Which makes me sad.

After I brush my teeth, I write.

After I write, I go to bed.

Bette's Wall Street Journal

Bette’s Wall Street Journal’s sitting
Right outside her door,
Like every other Saturday
That’s come this way before.

Today, however, Bette’s paper
Likely won’t get read,
At least by her, because we learned
That, sadly, Bette’s dead.

We don’t need much reminding
That routines of life go on,
Despite the fact that someone
That we’ve known is newly gone.

Yet to see that paper waiting there
Just brings that message home,
Though some of us may stick around,
The subject of a poem.

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