Pages of burning emotion flutter through the wind
Flipping from one end of my journey and milestones to the other
Letting the sun kiss each page as it transfers

The ink is dry
But the blood, and tears I've graced these pages with are very much still running through the words planted in the same field.

My pen screamed and etched images of my future
As my brain burned with a passion magnified by a deep sickness

And as the gunshots of thought blare
My pen rams the pages

And then silence
The scribbling scratches of the quill quiets down
And the accelerated breathing turns soft and shakey

The Prophet ends his journal entry
With a slice of the thumb
A bit of blood smeared on his art to ensure his life stays with it
And a night of deep sobbing stalking closely behind.

Just when I think I left the past behind,
My demons finally caught up to me.

Self-destructive tendencies,
Manic, mental, inability
To overcome this disease that plagues me.

It's cyclical,
It's haunting,
And it's exhausting.

I want to feel whole again.
I want to be happy.
I want to feel okay again.

I don't want to head down this road once more.

It seems I'm following a self-fulfilling prophecy,
Because all I seem to do is crave a substance,
That I know will only bring temporary happiness.

Dear Diary, I'm here to say,
I'm back once again, my thoughts in disarray.

I promise I'm trying.

I'm trying to overcome this years-long battle.

Dear Diary, I have to be honest with myself,
And honest with others,
Otherwise, what's to say I am trying to get better?

This writing is a testament, a statement,
A promise.

Dear Diary, this will be my last letter.

Dear diary;
I am my one
and only enemy.
Somehow,
I am content
and depressed
about it all
at once.

Dear diary;
I have thought a lot
about leaving this all behind
and buying a one-way ticket
to anywhere where no one
knows my name.
I want to forget who I am
and lose myself
in another's culture.
I want to stay until I tire
and do it all again
somewhere else.

Here

i count the years

story after story

deep-seated feelings

and sincerity

i open a diary

and feel

the four seasons

the love and ambitions

as my heartbeat

accelerates and halts

repeatedly.

hi. this past week went by like
a half forgotten dream: the time
passed too quickly,
i did very little and
i seem to remember the time i slept
and dreamt better than my
waking moments.
my mind has been scarce of
creativity and
even thought - though
i am healthy i feel
quite lifeless.

today is white and
dull, days like this
sometimes feel like static, like
the world is buffering,
like
the time has come to a halt.
i don’t usually miss the sun, but
these days are dull to
begin with.
i sit all day staring at screens and do
not much else - i’m growing quite
tired of it. but
on days such as these i feel
i barely have a
choice, so here i sit writing to you
and i am not all displeased.

at least i can say i wrote
today.
but what will all of this writing
come to? maybe
a poem, or a love
note, or a memory. or maybe
it will be something i can
look back on,
and giggle at how
silly
and sentimental i am.

Dear diary;
there's a musical riot
erupting in my
chest tonight.
My ribs echo
with the sounds of
chaos and harmony.

Dear diary;
my life is far
from normal
but not so strange that I
should fear what
lies ahead.