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.
I was a parent of a newborn,
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.
My hope is that if it survived that,
they will be adopted and well cared for.
I accept the fact it will not be returned.

Now reading delivered words that inspire
feelings of anger and disgust, I focus,
"Lost : Writing Journal- please call ",
with a number to inquire.

Feeling like a dead-beat parent,
I pick up the phone dreading,
the scene where I take it back.
Will it be the same?

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

I'm sure the leather now stinks,
as badly as my conscience.
I hope the paper inside will forgive,
and accept my words.


By: Kimarie Freeman