creativehouse

Close and warm, Thumbed through, Smudged and torn- Held so dear, filled to the brim With anger, love, sadness, fear, But lost along the way. Perhaps on a park bench, Left out in the cold. Perhaps it fell, spiraling Flying open its pages To the cold hard ground. Perhaps it was stolen! *gasp* By some admirer or curious passerby. But maybe, just maybe It new its time and place And thought you needed to grow And walked away. Perhaps it had a mind of its own And thought you needed new white pages To fill to the brim, to love and grin at To share your innermost feelings with And love unconditionally, Like a child, or a