Dec 2012
Were my life to be a diary
Each sentence a moment, each page a time with a distinct feeling and flavor
Chapters running into chapters, with a rising and falling action that will cycle through
Until I am dead.
no
There are joys, sadnesses, moments I would care to never read again.
Some pages are repeated over. and over. and over.
The same feelings and mistakes running through me like some fated theme.
A coursing river of celestial meaning flowing along with the lines of my life
Like somewhere out there is a universe that wants my existence to make sense.
Though, one page is black, empty beyond a lack of light.
It exists as a hypothetical possibility, something that I can never see
But must accept as fact.
no
I must also accept the ebony to be my own fault,
I held the bucket of paint and poured it down my throat.
Drinking the emptiness that would trickle through my stomach
Diffuse into my blood and cloak my brain as I wrote the memories of that night.
I drank the midnight poison by my own hand...
Usually the words look better a little faded and scribbled anyways
One more thoughtless, silly, scrambled night
couldn't hurt,
right?
no
But, I drank too much midnight,
The pen dropped from my hand
Then a flurry of movement that I
could not,
would not,
had. not. planned.
He took my pen and scribbled his notes all over my beautiful diary
Threw himself on a page I did not give to him.
He tagged it and brutalized it as the paint poured into my brain
Covering the tracks milliseconds after he made them.
no
I do not know what is written underneath that paint.
Neither does he.
Does this mean that boy is no more to blame
than me?
I did not know he wrote in me that night, until others mentioned
they had seen scrawls bled into the creamy pages,
And hinted that perhaps there were some words written below.
So understand that when I look at that page
and brew with hurt and rage
That the fact he does not remember what he scrawled
Doesn't change the times I've bawled, the paper
Trying to rip it away from the spine of my diary
And forget the message left inside me,
On a night when all I can remember saying is no.
Each sentence a moment, each page a time with a distinct feeling and flavor
Chapters running into chapters, with a rising and falling action that will cycle through
Until I am dead.
no
There are joys, sadnesses, moments I would care to never read again.
Some pages are repeated over. and over. and over.
The same feelings and mistakes running through me like some fated theme.
A coursing river of celestial meaning flowing along with the lines of my life
Like somewhere out there is a universe that wants my existence to make sense.
Though, one page is black, empty beyond a lack of light.
It exists as a hypothetical possibility, something that I can never see
But must accept as fact.
no
I must also accept the ebony to be my own fault,
I held the bucket of paint and poured it down my throat.
Drinking the emptiness that would trickle through my stomach
Diffuse into my blood and cloak my brain as I wrote the memories of that night.
I drank the midnight poison by my own hand...
Usually the words look better a little faded and scribbled anyways
One more thoughtless, silly, scrambled night
couldn't hurt,
right?
no
But, I drank too much midnight,
The pen dropped from my hand
Then a flurry of movement that I
could not,
would not,
had. not. planned.
He took my pen and scribbled his notes all over my beautiful diary
Threw himself on a page I did not give to him.
He tagged it and brutalized it as the paint poured into my brain
Covering the tracks milliseconds after he made them.
no
I do not know what is written underneath that paint.
Neither does he.
Does this mean that boy is no more to blame
than me?
I did not know he wrote in me that night, until others mentioned
they had seen scrawls bled into the creamy pages,
And hinted that perhaps there were some words written below.
So understand that when I look at that page
and brew with hurt and rage
That the fact he does not remember what he scrawled
Doesn't change the times I've bawled, the paper
Trying to rip it away from the spine of my diary
And forget the message left inside me,
On a night when all I can remember saying is no.
