When I think of the word diary,
I think of an old, recorded voice.
That of a girl of six or seven,
With few things to do, not much choice.

The girl stands at her desk,
She picks up the pen,
Her pale hands write as she says:

Dear Diary,
It's the ninth of July sixteen-twenty-five,
I went on a walk with Mama and Papa,
It was very nice.

No, that's not me,
Though these poems tell my life.
They're more of a journal,
That's more my type.

My life's in these words,
Feelings buried within,
More subtle a touch than 'I feel'
To the way I begin.

Nor are these words
Meant for someone to find,
Later on in the years,
When I've spent my life.

They're for you, Mother,
As I sit beside your eternal bed.
Updates on my life,
What goes on in my head.