Diary of a Poet

I opened the book of memories
Some are good and some are not
But they are mine to hold
Every fleeting thought
Some speak to who I was
Others to who I wanted so to be
But all of them are from my mouth
They hold the essence of me
So pen to paper once again
I pour my soul in word
Where fantasy and memory
Become distant and quite blurred
And what I make it is my own
Nobody else can claim it
Because everything in here is mine
The diary of a poet