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They make me sick.
I ***** the voices onto a page,
Hoping the words will make more sense
On paper than they do
Swirling round my head
In endless circles
That make me sick.
Only if you have
Been through
8:30 version of me

You know me well

When I am high
Not that high
What you may have thought
Ink is blue

When I feel low
Not that low
What you may be thinking
Ink is dark

And mostly
Yes mostly
That is my diary
Not camouflage
Genre: Self
Theme: Day in a history
Mitch Prax Oct 3
Dear diary;
and dear heart;
you broke your promise
when you beat for her
again.
Today at the end of my shift I wanted to cut myself with a box cutter but the box cutter turned to be dull. Fortunately or unfortunately? I don't know...
der kuss Aug 20
4th of august,
the darkest day
of your life,
and i am here to sympathize

you came to your man to speak,
what a dashing man he was once,
but his heart was cold now
and it was no longer yours,

you wanted to save
yourself from the misery,
your friends were there
but you're alone in this, dream girl,
and heart broke

you came home with the last pennies
in the pocket, and nobody's home, and you're weary,
and under the pillow, again,
you found her name

you're thinking of the escalators humming,
the bars, the beds, the red dress,
and sadness an abyss
and where you went wrong and who anna was,

and i got your heart shattered,
and i wished i was happy
unfortunately, i wasn't
Do not write and hide what's not or what is right.
For when left hidden in the night-
The day will expose it bright!
دema Aug 11
please don't
doubt how
much love
for you
resides in
this heart
of mine,

and,

please take
good care
of the heart
that lies
in the palms
of your hands.
Marco Aug 5
Holy, black typewriter, frenzied,
spits out strangers’ love letters, desperate, the ink band half dried
(but ultimately returns to its grave of  dust).
Withered books, yellow pages carelessly leafed through, devoured
(pay no heed to the traffic - walk and read),
falling from one pain into the next;
such are beginning and middle of these days...
And benzedrine fever dreams are fleeting,
as elusive as great insane private revelations
mentioning Ginsberg and Hendrix by name
- a swirling fata morgana of Buddha, Dharma, cult,
and a thousand angelic punks, punk angels, safety-pin-winged,
dreams about Neal and I (not I) being cops -
revealed to my hands in a crazy stupor, darkening and
illuminating the whole café, unaware-

and I know that Marlon knows a jeweler, knows
his hands -
how does that fit in here?

These days waste by, racing, crash-trickling like waterfalls,
like the Niagara Falls that made Joe cry -
and now I watch him cry,
shamelessly, inconsolable in the face of beauty,
crying like he’s never seen water,
as he hands me another case - Morpho menelaus -
dead, killed, (killed on Denver roads), escaping freedom
in the giant hands of a not-so-average Joe (secret hero of this poem),
his eyes glued on life, and full of tears
and his dad didn’t want a daughter neither, wanted no children at all-
And down in Mexico (where he is now, or was last)
the plywood violin plays the open-highway-blues
for a not-so-sober Jack who loves and hates and loses.
Somewhere amid the British-American chaos: a pair of twins
suffered at the hands of their mother,
suddenly forgotten on the road...

Speaking of “mother”: Soon I’ll miss a wedding, and
- come to think of it - so will Jack, won’t he,
the other one,
with his red lips and olive green canvas, with his
made-in-vietnam imitation of
father Dunkirk’s blood, fallen soldier, 1916 Jesus didn’t rise -
How to lose my mind positively, flush out the memories?
Swimming at midnight: the cold lake homely in my bones
all washed over by iodine-orange water.
Mark hums sweet country tunes, wheat between his lips, "hey la, my boyfriend's back" -
and the sun never sets
and the coffee is always cold
and all the pages are black.
And Springsteen lies on the nightstand, his spine turned to me,
sharing his makeshift bed with Kerouac and butterflies, and

a cruel storm of stories that sends my head spinning
makes it so that - unable to form in the hurricane -
poems cower in the back of my throat
like predators waiting to jump on their prey, and -
any minute now, I beg them, any moment-
but they shake their Rottweiler heads and bare their crocodile teeth,
taunting me, saying
that the wordy intelligence of others dumbs me down,
burns me out, charcoals my brain with the soot,
leaves me without originality; no
mind for my own words, no
regard for the verses crying to happen, only
the need to write, write, write,
stupidly, like a dog is forced by instinct,
the insatiable need to spill, to transform, to twist, distort, to prophesy, to-

Some  journal entry reads: healthy coping. Think:
Growth is inevitable.
God is inevitable!
Pain, and fury, and love, are inevitable! Luck -
To take this earth and make it yours,
this oyster,
and realize that it’s also everyone else’s;
(boys, no, kings of summer)
inevitably working together to create beauty,
only one glass case away from bewitching your living room,
from taking its seat right beneath the busy hand of God
and hold up the mirror:
this beauty was you all along. And me. And Him,
and everyone else.
This Father wanted a Son, wanted a daughter, even,
and,
suddenly,
this close to the face and hand and chest of God,
the old fear of 23 turns into excitement
with all our eyes, full of tears, glued on life -
still,
even now -
This is, essentially, a summary about my July in 2020.
Lyn-Purcell Aug 4

I merely express my rioted mind
A forest of thoughts and loves
screams and fears,
angels and demons that run rampant
Leaving no part of me unmarred
For I am too aware of all around me
With eyes that speak more than they say
I may not say it but I miss nothing
Perhaps if I were stupid, I would be much happier

My heart is a torrent
Can I no be soothed by a coat of dew and a kiss of rain
I merely a woman who wishes to live and not survive
To be recognised but not seen
To contribute to a craft that I so truly love
For I only am one and have one life to live
For all the things I lack in this life,
Physical beauty
Total confidence
A pure conscience

But my fire is there to keep me warm from world's chaos

I sincerely hope that my many mistakes
will not overshadow my passions
For now, I truly understand the power
of artistic expression and integrity
And I feel as I do not deserve to even
tread the path of those I have admired all
these years and have been immortalised in mind...

I truly do not want to be false, a fraud, a fake
But more then ever, I want to be free...
Never will I take the power of the pen for granted again
For writing may be the is the one true
thing that shows the best part of me...


An entry I wrote in my diary yesterday before bed.
I find that I'm my most emotional and vulnerable at night,
It's so easy to be lost in my own head.
Lyn 💜🌹
Spriha Kant Aug 4
During a travel in Shangri La , the floating love in sunrays and choirs of birds opened my eyes.
And I found myself lying on mat on terrace with a handsome smiling man reflecting in sun.

While rolling mat , an invisible breezy naughty kid played with my messy hair and tickled and whistled in my ears.
Seeing this , the aunt flowers smiled and swayed in euphoria.
Closing the kid behind my terrace's door just before my way to downstairs, I sighed in relief.
And the kid went very far and higher and higher...

Capturing this moment , I poured it down into my diary.
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