Confessions of a diary.
The words are scratched into my pages,
My tear-stained pages are dog-eared, well-read.
The secrets I hold, I will never tell,
Because that will break her trust.
She always starts "Dear Diary…"
Like I could reply. Like
I could tell her how to make it better,
I can't, I can only help her vent.
My job is to hold information,
And only show her, no one else.
I know her fears, her upsets,
But I can't help her.
I keep my pages,
Locked to all but her.
This is my job,
This is my confession.