Dear Diary
A page-a-day, with which to write my thoughts,
As the years go by –
Their private tales of woulds and shan’ts and oughts,
And not one lie.
And so I’d keep them diligently busy,
Never shy,
For a week at least, before they’d miss me,
As my pen ran dry.
And ev’ry year would bring another one,
With best intents,
With the year emblazoned on its cover,
Thirsty for events.
They always were a vaguely dreaded gift,
Yet so we’ll-meant –
And there they’d sit, unopened and unlived,
Their spines unbent.
A page-a-day with which to prove my worth,
That I exist,
And yet, my words were in perpetual dearth –
You get the gist.
I guess I’m not an introspective sage,
Nor an egotist,
Who feels the need to tell-all to the page
And mill the grist.
Yet, ev’ry year would bring the doubt unwilled,
That if I tried
To fill those pages, they would not be filled,
Unless I lied…
But if I left them virgin, who’s to say
What tales I hide ?
If only I had written-up each day,
I’d say with pride…
Rhyming Couplets 