I am a poets journal,
in trust of verse that has been tilled.
Plying emotions that play eternal,
on pages not yet filled.

Joy will sometimes overflow,
on pages not yet filled.
Perhaps to reap what it is I sow,
of thoughts not yet spilled.

As myself, I struggle to rebuild,
some eyes still see my weakness.
On pages not yet filled,
you can almost feel my bleakness.

There is no stopping memories,
even if my heart should still.
Look beyond that which binds me,
on pages not yet filled.