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