My diary had a sad demise.
A ruthless murder, by my own hands.
For crimes that I understand not. It was as innocent as could be.
FALSE.
The early signs of 'growing up', the new found love, the stories of normalcy and it's counter, the tears and joy, all together.
It was me.
And I murdered myself.
The other half is torn apart too, inside of me. Juggling and struggling between individuality and morality.
Between the storm and the great silent sea,
A ruthless murder, by my own hands.
For crimes that I understand not. It was as innocent as could be.
FALSE.
The early signs of 'growing up', the new found love, the stories of normalcy and it's counter, the tears and joy, all together.
It was me.
And I murdered myself.
The other half is torn apart too, inside of me. Juggling and struggling between individuality and morality.
Between the storm and the great silent sea,
all thrusting between those fingers, waiting to be unleashed.
Of wanting to tread upon those terroteries,
where the lust of words never heard, asking to string together that world of forbidden charm,
and those experiences, calling out, to be discovered.
My belly full of unsatisfied desires and thoughts painted on that canvas of my conscious and unconscious,
both ,
wanting to be understood.
Words turned hostile, backstabbed my emotions, a friend turned enemy, a snitch.
Pulled out those pages,for years who comforted me,
now stank,
of betrayal, and I left,
misunderstood.
Misunderstood for more than I had done.
For more than I had ever imagined.
The mind too, has limits;
deliberate boundaries, drawn , purposefully.
Forcing, the fickle feelings under the covers.
Thrashing through my veins, they found refuge, finally, on the pure white frame.
My diary.
MY friend.
MY lover.
My being.
All wasted away.
All stabbed, those fingers blotched with the words, oozing out of that creation,
that made me, ME..
Belittled, my esteem.
All gone.
Cornered.
Eyes stung with shock,
and heart blackned.
With shame.
With remorse.
And the murder, again.
Wrong, were not the words, nor the penholder.
Wrong was none.
Or were all.
Wrong was I, to flow with the vanity.And the untruths.
But not wrong was I , again.
Loved to be loved.
No approvals. Nor disapprovals. Just silence. Of understanding.
The life of a confidant , short lived.
But it lives on, in that minute corner, between dreams and reality,
between me and I,
between the wrong and rights.
That one creation, a friend first.
An open secret later.
But a foe?
Never.
Of wanting to tread upon those terroteries,
where the lust of words never heard, asking to string together that world of forbidden charm,
and those experiences, calling out, to be discovered.
My belly full of unsatisfied desires and thoughts painted on that canvas of my conscious and unconscious,
both ,
wanting to be understood.
Words turned hostile, backstabbed my emotions, a friend turned enemy, a snitch.
Pulled out those pages,for years who comforted me,
now stank,
of betrayal, and I left,
misunderstood.
Misunderstood for more than I had done.
For more than I had ever imagined.
The mind too, has limits;
deliberate boundaries, drawn , purposefully.
Forcing, the fickle feelings under the covers.
Thrashing through my veins, they found refuge, finally, on the pure white frame.
My diary.
MY friend.
MY lover.
My being.
All wasted away.
All stabbed, those fingers blotched with the words, oozing out of that creation,
that made me, ME..
Belittled, my esteem.
All gone.
Cornered.
Eyes stung with shock,
and heart blackned.
With shame.
With remorse.
And the murder, again.
Wrong, were not the words, nor the penholder.
Wrong was none.
Or were all.
Wrong was I, to flow with the vanity.And the untruths.
But not wrong was I , again.
Loved to be loved.
No approvals. Nor disapprovals. Just silence. Of understanding.
The life of a confidant , short lived.
But it lives on, in that minute corner, between dreams and reality,
between me and I,
between the wrong and rights.
That one creation, a friend first.
An open secret later.
But a foe?
Never.
