I am nothing more than a journal.
People pour their soul into my skin and spine,
Slowly watching me break and wither, but they continue.
I am drowning in pages of sorrow
and sadness.
And I cannot come up for air.
But that is okay,
I am nothing more than a journal.
People pencil in their stories with hasty tongues and hurtful hearts.
They do not see that in turn I am hurting too.
For with every tale written, I am losing myself.
Not many pages are left.
But that is okay,
I am nothing more than a journal.
People use me to indulge in their thoughts,
and once they have had their fill,
they are gone.
There is a new journal to seek.
I am left battered,
Destined to be picked up once again,
Only to be read and reflected on,
Because I am of no substance, I am just a keeper of Theirs.
People read me but do not READ me.
Because I am nothing more than a journal,
And my true contents are blank.

It is hard
to enjoy a moment
when the constant thought of mortality
races in your mind
with no intent of reaching the finish line.

There are those who
spend their lives
searching for the words
they have been waiting to hear.
It is a shame they do not know
the power of their own voice.