Blue Book

Baba gave me a present

and it was not my birthday

but it changed me

like turning a year older

or growing inches taller.

A blue book

of quality and quantity

of blank white pages

smooth and beautiful

with faint lines across.

I opened it with small hands

and curiosity abound

There was Baba's scribbled love note

and the spine creaked invitingly

and I was homeward bound.

A place for my thoughts

and rhymes and musings

and these poems will be horrible

because I was seven

and silly.

I wrote carefully in my

sacred blue book

keeping my handwriting tidy

and I never stopped writing

carefully with seven year old eyes.

Seven to seventeen found me

depressed and alone

but I scribbled across faint lines

I kept myself alive

I kept myself alive.

I wrote my ruinous life

not in my blue book

to keep it from harm

I kept myself from harm

and I wrote myself alive.