Journals become the color you are
The paper pages of the past line the atmosphere's stars
They are portals to another dimension
You can see what has gone and write hopes for your future
Today I was the color fuschia
My feelings were purplish red petals, but my pen was a stem
If I let the colors drain from my sleeve, I can make the best of them
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The journal is a mirror, and I can see all my lines
Even if I am gloomy, the blue ink knows where to dry
If I touch my finger to the page, it morphes and electrifies
When I step inside the journal, my nose becomes immersed
I see the curves and jagged edges of my emotion
This journal holds the most important shades of devotion
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Writers to me, are soft and full of pinks
They paint the stories and concepts no one thinks
When I create, I am the color of salmon
My words are becoming fish, swimming below a canyon
Without my stories, the world would grow cold
If any writer stopped, imagination would begin to mold
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I embrace the tinted writer's glow
If I keep going in this hobby, I will continue to grow
There is nothing like having a journal as a best friend
When I let my brain seep onto the pages, it is blissful
I don't have to pretend
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