- Diary - I remember when my poems were just words on a page when folded meant it was finished I remember when I stuffed my plush with paper poem after poem before eyes other than mine ever saw them I remember when my metaphors were too obvious when the only thing I cared about writing was rambling on and on about my overwhelming worthlessness I remember midnights when my lamp was still bright and burning and every snap of graphite made me terrified that someone would wake up I remember titling them the most boring names, but that was good enough as long as it was written I remember when I wanted to read them again I would pull it out of the plush plucking off any stuffing that managed to latch on The notebook I wrote them in has pages ripped out and poems not worth sharing Though it was never really a notebook, more like a diary where things I would never say to someone else were etched into it like stone There were good days and there were bad days, yet the older I get, the more bad days are written down Maybe that says something about my life, or maybe it proves that only the exciting things make the headlines I remember going into a closet and reading my diary to anyone on the phone who would listen Their concerned grunts whenever anything graphic was mentioned How one entry would be about a fun dream I had, and the very next would be a plan to end it all I remember giggling at the sudden change of tone while they questioned my sanity Maybe thats why they stopped talking to me And here I am... same poems same tone different method To strangers on the internet questioning my sanity But all I question is how I went from 5 poems to 60 How I got the motivation, the ideas to keep writing How that plush filled with paper became an account filled with projects So when I look from that perspective... All I can see is how far I've come
this ones mid i wrote it at like 1-2am so :P
