Journals

Location

41 Bay Hill Lane
United States
33° 54' 35.9856" N, 117° 29' 22.4844" W

Floating pages in the wind,

Some words written on my skin.

Yes I was born into sin,

But where do I truly begin?

Maybe I lost myself in all the books,

Pages upon pages was all it took.

And sometimes I forget what that really means?

Walk into the room and a journal gleams.

Ashes to ashes spinning round and round,

Hallucinations and my soul leaves the ground.

Dreams about darkness,

And the demons howl.

A drone in the army of the forgotten now.

Floating in and out of consciousness,

Watching the blood trickle down my wrist,

Praying to find a way out of loneliness.

Why are you lying?

This is blissfulness...

Life is but a dream,

Yet the journal gleams.

Can you hear me now?

I tried so hard to be accepted

Can you hear me shout?

Even my family doesn't recognize when I'm around.

I could sing,

Dance,

Shout and I'm still a whisper in the crowd.

I bet my daddy don't even want me now.

Just another burden to be dealt with.

Wow.

Standing in the church, the pastor doesn't seem to see...

How everyone is worshipping except for me.

Years of low self esteem and insecurities.

Walked up to the journal.

And it still gleams.

Flowers in the attic,

How I watch them bloom.

Just like I let them sit back and assume.

Who I really am,

Or what I've turned out to be.

You can find that in the next verse.

That's my eulogy.

Here lies the body of the forgotten one.

Her skin radiant as the glowing sun.

Her mind lucidly dreaming of a place

where she longs to be.

Free from malicious memories...

Nirvana.

May her soul be at peace.

As I slip into a peaceful state,

The journal's in the corner and still I wait.

Slowly opening,

Pages fall out one by one.

Words on my skin, I begin to hum.

Watching as that journal turns out to be...

A reflection of who I am.

The journal is me.

This poem is about: 
Me

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