I have a little diary of
everything I've done,
all the places I have travelled,
the words that I have read.
It doesn't have a substance,
or a presence you can see;
It's every thought and every deed
that's kept inside my head.

And often, when the pages
become too full for me,
I sit awhile and contemplate,
compose some poetry.
It may be just a whimsy
about nothing much at all,
or a chronicle of ages past;
How nations rise and fall.

Or a song in celebration,
of the sky, the sun, the sea;
The colours of a rainbow -
It matters not to me.
And it needn't be particular
to some other place or time,
but I am quite particular
that what I write, should rhyme.

And this mind will ever scribble
whilst there is hand to draw,
the words and pictures captured
on the pages held in store.
For it is a little dairy of
all inside my head;
And I, the instrument of scribe
for the road that lies ahead.