this diary isn’t for you to read anymore
so stop trying to pry it open
its locked,
and there’s a key for a reason.
stop acting like you know me
the truth is, you don’t.  
i could write down things about myself
and you could read them
but what about those that i don’t write
you don’t know me,
so don’t think you do.
i’m not an open book like you think i am
some chapters are meant to be kept hidden
and i don’t want you reading them.

Sometimes I think maybe we fall in love first
And then we seek lover.
Cause I have always heard lovers leave
But never seen love has leaft.

【ｉ　ａｍ　ｔｈｅ　ｓｉｎｎｅｒ．
          ｉ　ａｍ　ｔｈｅ　ｌｉａｒ　ｉｎ　ｙｏｕ

                                           ｉ　ａｍ　ｔｈｅ　ｓｅｅｒ】

Yes, snow.  Mebbe take my face in your hands and shake me?



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDIII)


It's...snowing.  Hug yourself within the pale
Eye of these naked hours whose ghastly sense
Of Winter sits triumphant oer pretense,
As tiny flakes 'non filter down t'avail
The soul of that keen silence--cherished bail
We relished in forgotten days like thence
Twas fit to sanctify us, wandring hence
To finger cotton-candy whiteness' tale.
Don't ask me why my heart sank in a poor
'Scuse when my owly eyes first caught the view.
Nor if I loved morn's cuppa like twas fer
My soul's recure, Assam just what we knew
It should be if you taste it, no.  We were
Too fond of lies, I think, was't?  I miss YOU.

09Nov18a

The words you use to hurt me
Rip it like the used paper in my journal

...say--whatever, nor how to say "ghastly" with another word.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCDXCVII)


O how the gutter drools in morning's pale
And ghastly eye, leaves fluttring down from hence
In lonely ones or twos, so yellow, whence
Look how November lays a carpet, hale
Aye golden, thick and musty, whose detail
Glows dimly under grey racks' twilight, dense
Calm is't? mair bitter than our souls fr'intents
Like, while Death stares us in the face sans bail.
Trees' naked boughs stretch upward as winds stir
The fallen with a careless hand.  We do
Not look, but with faint shivring as it were,
Pull sweaters closer, hang up lights to woo
Warm feelings as the strands blink through this poor
Light, and rain weeps sans consolation, blue.

06Nov18a

Hello Dear…
__________________­
There's a lot of pain in my soul.
I don't feel like I can be seen, hence being a ghost.
I'm not calling the seen those who gather attention.
I've never been able to hold the necessary attention that is love.
I'm tiny.
Ugly.
Little to ńöẗḧïńġ...
But I'm something.
I mustered up courage deep inside me, somewhere in my shadow...
I pulled it out and coated it with what I thought was hope.
But whether it was or wasn't, it overpowered that courage.
It escalated until it had no other option but to fall.
When it fell, the choices were already in motion.
A result was ready to explode...and cause casualties.
...Or just one casualty.
I guess a ghost can see the future.
Its shadow can do more than foreshadow.
I opened up a door for courage...
But I let out a demon called melancholy.
I made a mistake...
And it led to another heartache.
I never knew that I was my own weakness...
Not until I was bitten by the Gloom Bug.

Dear diary,
I'm sorry because I can't draw and you can't be as cool as my imaginary journal.
I'm sorry because I don't write regularly, and I use that excuse, that I can't write just in the right mood when I feel the time passing in the mistery of the eternal.
I'm sorry because even if I have such a bad memory, I like to forget.
I'm sorry but I let you know that I burned my previous diary even if it wasn't a concrete diary just a black book with poems, a touchable memory palette.
I'm sorry because I live in my own world and in the "real" one nothing really happens, nothing I can write about.
I'm sorry...
I'm still trying to find out who I am, trying to break out my inhibitions, to play out my demons..
JUST to WRITE THEM OUT
Sign, Tiniky

What is complete can not ever be spoiled.
Static perfection in every point.
Slices of moments, magnificent world,
Life that's eternal in every word.