Dear Diary

Dear Diary,

I started writing a diary in middle school, 
an assignment that I saw through. 
Perfect grades were all I wanted, 
it was how my sister and I bonded.
I first wrote of tennis, my fall season thrill, 
of every game we played, of every drill. 
I started playing because of a friend, 
who convinced me to stay until the end.
I first loved tennis for her, now I love it for me, 
and I'm thankful for the introduction to the new world I see.
As I moved up in school my diary did too, 
this time writing about everything I knew.
My science notes, math, english and all, 
all written down in my then messy scrawl.
Then my notebook had to expand, 
replaced with a bigger notebook brand.
Filled with blank pages just waiting for me, 
to fill it with concepts and ideas yet to be.  
Even now I still write from time to time, 
notes written messily outside my notebook lines, 
while the diaries I bought remained untouched, 
I still remember my stories that I loved so much. 
I must've written dear diary hundreds of times, 
and yet the phrase still doesn't feel like mine. 
It's a universal greeting to a paper, 
to mark with pen as it meets the maker, 
of some message or persuader just waiting to listen.
So if it could understand me I would thank it, 
for I turned to it more than I care to admit.
It seemed to listen more than everybody, 
and a flip through the pages reveals who I used to be. 
And everytime I look through them I'm reminded,  
of how much dear diary shaped who I am 

Sincerely,
Claire