The Book with Seeds

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.

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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