Old School Journal

I used to write in a journal, riding the bart in San Francisco

The feel of the pencil, the motion of the car, the

Rush of an opposite passing train.

The silent thoughts of the passengers and

The 1/2 second eye contacts.

The freedom to write and erase,

not knowing if it was a poem or a story

or if anyone would ever read it.

No phone to answer no person to text

nothing connecting me to the external

but my mind and the crisp white pages

between a weathered brown leather cover.

I wrote things like this.