I read my mother’s journals and yearn to have a child who will one day read mine.
As scared as I am of what I may produce on those pages,
for now, I still write on every line.

My journals are vulnerable, lengthy, my lifeline.
And I believe my child would be alarmed to read the pages, but still,
I read my mother’s journals and yearn to have a child who will one day read mine.

My soul feels 109.
Who would relate to a single word I have written? But
for now, I still write on every line.

I know children are born unto the divine,
And still I am buried in the thought of their permanency, yet
I read my mother’s journals and yearn to have a child who will one day read mine.

My mother stamped flowers into her journal’s spine;
I scribble in cheap dollar store notebooks.
For now, I still write on every line.

How sacred to have written record of your life,
And to witness written record of the woman before you.
I read my mother’s journals and yearn to have a child who will one day read mine.
For now, I still write on every line.