Beneath the dark clouds, the
wheat blows gently on the farm.
I lie in bed and think about all
the loud farm machines that
will whirl into action at daybreak.
But tonight, as always,
silence is my best friend.

Dear diary;
I am constantly
finding myself being
devoured by every memory
that I
have ever had.

I spend too many nights thinking
Wondering, writing, dreaming
Of someone who doesn't even think of me