I gave you truth-
You sent me silence.
I gave you peace-
You returned it with violence.

I shot my heart to you.
You-Neo, Matrix-
Bent over backwards
Just so you wouldn’t claim it.

I gave you secrets,
You were the pages in my diary,
Like keys played by all -
You gave everyone my diary.

I’m war-torn, scarred.
No peace where I lay my head.
My heart-Boomerang-
Like Eddie Murphy said.

A tragedy in these words,
My love shut behind a closed door.
Echoes of smiles, of laughter-
My heart, a chalk line on the floor.

“It is what it is,” they say.
“Leave. Let love go.”
But my foundation is cracked,
And love still seeps through the wounds.

It will not go.

Every person I've met has their own demands and whims directed at me.
I always regard them with forgiveness.
But they can't understand this
they fuss, thinking I see them as empty space.
I simply possess great willpower.

I think penguins dream of flying,
It’s a fact they belong to the class of birds.
Can you imagine a penguin in flight?
I can’t, because their fluffy bodies couldn’t bear it.
Still, I think they dream.

Don't know if I want to
drink this coffee or smash
the cup on my head.

Maybe it would look great
with coffee staining my face
like the pages from an old diary.

Maybe I am just a bunch of words
but you can't read all of them
because of the coffee staining
the pages and the words and my life.

The only thing that separates me
from Plath is that my words are
either written by a child or by someone
illiterate or by someone sad or by me.

It didn't count for much,

I know in hindsight, thanks to --


my account of it.

We often strive to create something great, but end up with garbage!
We feel disappointed in ourselves because we fail to astonish ourselves and others.
That's why we must not stop trying and practicing patience we should fight and improve the quality of our goal-setting.
In the end, something will come out of it, we just mustn't give up.
But also know this: someone will always appear and say disparagingly, "Whose trash is this?"

each cycle ends but i cannot pretend
a part of me doesn’t pray to see your hand at the end
create spaces for you to soak in my head
misrepresenting everything in hopes of the best
keep it quiet and only unravel in my diary
keep it silent and pray nobody can see

I just stopped writing

that diary of mine since --


it is never true.

just molted
new body still sensitive
your fingers brushed through my hair
my perspective is questioning
birds eye view to warped perception
confidence then second guessing
snow angels in the backyard
tears in the diary
smoke joints in the backyard
fears feel so fiery
your fingers traced my cracked heart
my fingers drew you and your scars
i just molted
new heart still sensitive