A book I love,

a book I need,

for what to carry on a deserted island

than a book with seeds.

The drawings that grow

of the dangers I see,

my journal I keep them in

for someone one day to see.

Alone I am,

alone I feel,

if I'm not careful,

my life it will steal.

My weeps grow more

as my days here grow long.

How comforting it is when the sound of my pencil scrapes

create a song.

My drawings are feirce,

as shadey as the night,

the only thing I can do

is just draw and sit tight.

I know not if or when I'm to return home,

to only hope one day,

my life here is to warn the next person

who intends to stay.