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.