I gaze down,
Without a sound,
"Dear Diary"
My gaze drifts hazily,
Lazily over empty page.
"What do you thinkā¦
Of your ruled lines,
Empty pages, potential finds
Between the confines of your cover
What secrets hide within the binds,
What interests you within your lines?
Would you wish to remain forever blank?
Or do you long for secrets so sublime?
What do you think of self pitying me?
Perhaps from my grasp
You long to be free,"
I scribble in bloodied ink,
Teeter on sanity's brink
"Dear diary,
What do you think?
What do you see?
Do you recognise
The potential in me?
Or do you weary,
Grow tired and cold,
Sprinkle your covers
With dust; become old
Do you ignore?
Or do you advise?
Do you read what I write
And sympathise?"
Words patter from my ponderous mind
They rarely, if ever, stop their monotone grind
Consuming; Overwhelming,
Pasted darkly, forever condemning.
"Dear Diary,
What is it you see?
Why is it you stare back at me grimly,
Reflect shattered illusions ever more dimly?
My words line your spaces,
Marking a multitude of places
Within the depth of my life
Grief and strife,
Joy and pain,
All of which I shan't visit again.
Are you aware of what you see?
Inner feelings,
Dreams; Inspirations; Motivations; Even Cessations:
You are the true mirror of my eye."