Dear Diary // a poem

it’s time to stop writing in third person

and start writing for myself. If I’m going to heal right

I need to pick up my pen and put up a fight

to save my life.

There was a woman I used to know but I don’t know

where or why she had to go. I keep looking in the past

to find out when I lost myself.

I need these words to help me survive, even if the truth

falls like blood from my hands

and I don’t stop bleeding.

No body knows that I buried my diary in the snow,

and when the summer came a tree sprouted in its place

the way great oaks from a little acorn grows

taking over the view of the sky. When birds pick its fruit

they sing my secrets, I was a fool who runs and hides

realized too late I was running from myself.

A flight of birds leave letters instead of feathers

in hope that the truth will set me free instead of killing

what’s left of me inside.

it’s the only diary I tried

to eliminate, pretend that chapter

never happened in my life. i’m lost in the pages

that litter the street, praying that an answer will be

written down somewhere clearly. why is it a language

I cant translate if these are my feelings? I’m just so tempted

to take an axe and chop the tree while I’m screaming

where is the real me? What did I write in my






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