Writing off the page from...
William Stafford's list poem, What's In My Journal?
Where Is My Journal?
My journal is sitting in my van shivering cold. Neglected because its owner is trying too hard to be in too many places at one time. Places that are miles apart, clogged in congestion, stuck in a traffic jam, stopped at a red light, waiting. Waiting to be noticed, waiting to be written in, desperate for attention. All alone and shivering in the cold with not so much as a blanket or jacket to protect it from the brittle cold or the stench of the horse dung that has manifested itself into the overall aroma of the rotting aging jail, it has found itself trapped in.
My journal was waiting for this day for months. Waiting to finally come out and play, yet instead sits like a neglected lover, forced to breath in the stench of horse dung, feeling cold and lonely. Waiting to be filled.