Journals Lost

 This is for the journals, lost to time.
Whose pages I bled my heart and soul over.
Books of my poems
that meant more to me
than any person did.

This is for the poems, lost,
That will never again see the light of day.

This is for the times I lost those journals,
When I lost my will to write.
As if a bit of my soul was cast into the wind,
never to come back again.

Because I lost
these words and thoughts,
I believed to be my heart,
And because I lost hope,
believing my thoughts and words to be gone,
They were,
I had allowed them to be.
Gone.

I had lost my sacred Grimoires,
My spellbooks of power.
And believing my poems,
my favored children,
to be gone,
I let the blocks set in.

Ah, the folly of youth.
Because I lost a handful of these sacred texts,
I allowed myself
to be locked off to the creative process.

Not only had I lost my Muse,
I had sent her packing.
A thousand moments of thought and insight,
lost to time,
because I blocked myself off.
I had become locked
to the power
those books and writings held over me.
This is the folly of youth.

Eventually,
with tons of self reflection,
I got over it.

A bit at a time,

And would allow myself to write
on any scrap of paper

I got my poetic voice back,
and I let my lost words free
to float on the wind,
To mean what they had in the moment,
But Let Them Go
To be Free,

And then

So was I.

To not be forgotten,
But expanded upon,
in a new phase of my life.

This is for the journals, lost to time.