Journals
Every time someone gives
me a nice journal, as a writer, I feel a little insulted. It means they probably
paid more for a blank book than one some author labored intensely over, like I
do when I write. I know I’m supposed to fill these journals with wisdom, poetry
or some such thing making them a cherished keepsake. But I always write on the
computer, even when I journal. So I have a bunch of blank journals taking up
shelf space.
Blank books stare blankly
At me from my tall bookshelf
As I type away
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