Journal sits unused
Lying there.
Its unwritten pages
calling calmly to me.
Write.
Cover worn from countless times
I’ve answered its call
To write only to be answered
With silence
From the creative voice in my head.
Its pages are dry leaves
Crinkling gently from the turning
It works like a match on my memories
Lighting them ablaze
Never letting me forget
The good or the bad
Smelling like
Ink, pressed flowers
And unspoken secrets
It will never share.
It unlocks its gentle mysteries
Only to me.
It is a faithful friend,
Never turning its back on me
Listening calmly
Without a sound
To all my complaints
It is my temple, sacred and strong,
Only to be opened by those whom
We deem worthy,
My journal and I
It is the source of my inspiration
My own secret weapon
With it I can be anything
I wish
As long as I imagine it,
It can be done