j.g.lewis

Don’t look for me amidst words I write 
between the lines or in the night. My handwriting 
always rough at best, the journal is a daily test 
not to myself, as much as time. 
The pages stained, the thoughts are mine. 
Coffee spills or drops of rain, tears 
in certain places, among streaks of blood 
(paper cuts) are both things I’ve done, and 
things I must. 
Personal. Private, page after page, book into
book, rarely do I take a second look. 
I can, when I choose. I write. Memories now, 
or they will be soon, a thought du jour, 
there is always room between newspaper clippings 
and obituaries, postage stamps and all the necessaries; 
the weather, the cities, the price of gas, a few jokes 
and then, a certain laugh. I never know what
I will discover, as I fill the space 
between the covers.
Inspiration from a tea bag tag, a picture from a
product bag, instructions to a game, a recipe or two, 
the phone number of someone I once knew. 
Stories of redemption, or reflection, coupons 
never redeemed, wishes and promises not once 
what they seemed. 
Directions to a house I’ll never visit again. Excuses 
or reasons I never explain. An expired lottery ticket, 
a book mark now, I always wonder the when 
and the how.
Concert tickets, and transit passes, accounts of 
dreams now only ashes. A label from a bottle 
of premium champagne, reminders I’m reminded of, 
again and again. 
Let’s face it, we don’t always remember, and in years 
we never will. You can write them down and still 
the history in the making, of interest to myself. 
Only once a kiss and tell.
The journal is, essentially, a travelogue: inner thoughts, 
outward concerns as I evolve. The pencil continues
to scratch, the words keep running. It’s not 
who I have become, but what I am becoming.

© 2018 j.g. lewis