I carry a black leather bound book.
Written in crimson ink.
My journal, my guide, my home.
Some memories better left forgotten.
I obsess over the penmanship.
Contemplate for hours over the language.
Stress over the sound and tone.
Of each and every new detailed poem.
The thoughts left behind and unwritten.
The memories left forgotten .
Some dreams slowly pushing forward.
And some nightmares quickly forgotten.
A small black leather book.
Written with crimson pen.
The words that are simple when left alone.
Yet leave a shocking and stunning impact as a whole
It was but a simple gift.
Not designed to inspire or spark the imagination.
Not meant to be flashy or impress with look.
But meant to contain a simple day to day struggle.
A small black book given by my mother.
To record my emotions while with my father.
A simple present of love and thought.
Filled with minor doodles and words of the heart.
My black book of poetry that has created opportunity.
A simple book that holds my emotions.
Hopes and dreams all written in ink.
All contained within my black leather book written in crimson ink.
The blank pages yet to be written.
The well thumbed through pages filled with thoughts.
Some view them as nothing but useless ramblings of no use.
But to me they are the most precious of possessions.
of no value and worth nothing to others.
But valued beyond measure to me.
A simple black book that means nothing
Yet a precious record of my emotions that means the world to me.
