My diary must be perfect,

Must be pristine

No mistakes shall mar its beautiful pages,

No randomness, no brainstorming


My diary must have purpose,

Clearly visible,

Clearly outlined


My writing must be neat,

My thoughts organized,

My words eloquent


And so I don’t use a diary,

But in its place,

A white folder,

With lined paper


It doesn’t need to be perfect,

Or neat,

Or pristine


Sometimes pages stick out at all ends,

And the last few pages I’ve saved,

For my most random thoughts,

Which may never see the light of day


It begins with an endless story,

For I say I have no time,

But truly I have no motivation,

To finish


At the other end I have poems,

I have songs,

And I have my randomness


In between is an ocean,

Of simple lined paper

Which I can ruin with ink,

With Lead, without fear


I may never have a diary,

For fear of ruining it

But this folder,

As simple and freeing,

As I wish my writing to be,

Is what I use

Recently I read some Longreads about diaries and realized I don’t keep one. The idea is nice, but I always feel like it should look perfect and beautiful and be filled with meaningful pieces. But I do put my ideas somewhere and it is a humble white folder.

Image: Google, Pixabay