Author: kaseykc
Okay. The poem is mine - I wrote it, I own it and I've decided to add it into this...
The Memoirs of Ianto Jones
My first dairy - 1st August 1990
Well, I've never had a diary before so I don't know what I should put in it exactly but from what mam and tad have told me I'm meant to write about my feelings and how my day went.
I don't see the point in writing too much about the same thing I do every single day so I'll try to write about how I feel and maybe my opinions of things.
I have lots of opinions about things but I'm only six-years old so I guess no-one really cares about my opinion. They think I'm too young to understand. I don't think age has anything to do with understanding, I understand lots of things. I understand algebraic-equations and they're meant to be really hard to understand. I know the first 200 digits of the number Pi – it starts off with 3.1415926535897.
I think they just don't want to listen to my opinions, they obviously don't matter or they'd listen to me. They don't care for my opinions so why should I offer them when no-one will listen?
I will write them here, in this diary, my first diary. I will write down my opinions of life and everything else until the day I die. And I'll start with this one;
At the end of the day there's always a chance, that what happened in the past was wrong. That history is supposed to constantly change, to be re-written. It's not like anything is ever set in stone... not for some.
Maybe the history that is taught nowadays is different to that taught originally, before it was 'altered' or 'fixed'. No-one can be certain of the truth because the truth is immaterial.
Sometimes the truth isn't worth the sacrifice.
Sometimes, it's better to believe the lie that lets you sleep at night even if it's last night alive.
And sometimes, the truth just hurts too much to know.
* * * * * *
I once heard a voice in my ear,
It whispered words of heavenly prayer,
They made me smile and fill with cheer,
As I pondered upon my likeliest heir,
I heard the whispers everywhere,
Always those same old words,
Always whispered on the wind with care,
I wondered what the morning birds,
Meant when they sang in tune,
Twittering like wild flames so fiery,
On the longest day in June,
But now at last I understand what was whispered in my ear,
When I was a boy who knew no fear...
I've always like poetry. It's something that can show the complexity of human emotion. It's not one thing or another, it just is. One person can gauge one thing from a certain poem whilst another can interpret it entirely differently. It shows so many things that cannot be explained simply. It uses metaphors and similes, pathetic fallacy and rhyming couplets, to paint a picture of joy, happiness, sorrow, anguish... it's painted by artists of the written word and I love to sit and read of another's view of the world from a time before televisions, a time before there was radio and telephones.
A time where people wrote letters and attended the small Church in their town on a Sunday to thank the lord and to be given blessing from the ordained.
End of first diary entry- I. Jones