journal
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And I’m back, once again at the drawing board.
I know life’s a rollercoaster
And I’ll have bad days,
But I always find myself back here;
Come with a headache,
Write with a heartache
My mind was not quite right,
my thoughts would give me a fright,
grabbed me a journal,
made the thoughts external,
and now I'm feeling alright.
"I always have half a mind to tear out things
and start again." (April 21, 2011, fifteen going on sixteen,
when I thought myself a scholar and a cut above
myself)
who wanted to reinvent herself
Torn pages of unfinished verse. They can’t know she’s vulnerable. Thrown in the trash to join the other lost travelers. Never reaching their potential, aborted in the womb.
Dear pen,
We’ve been together for years
Changing with the seasons
And yet our character is still the same.
Across thousands of pages,
Letters To/From a Journal
4/8/2017
Journal,
Maybe it’s because I’m 6 hours into my last year of childhood,
Or because of the incessantly pounding of the thoughts against my skull,
Stained
By Shelby Haley
Dear Journal,
A dark ink flows through the tattered page
Humans dancing, laughing, singing on the monochrome stage.
No matter how hard I try
To Beijing,
The world revolves around Beijing.
I met one of the kindest people...he smiles wide.
When I've got a whirlpool in my mind
And it's spilling out of my eyes
On to creamy paper that tries
To soften the splatters of a
Melancholy mind
When the Sky,
Weeps its own tears
Every year since kindergarten,
We begin with a journal entry.
Entering our thoughts on our day,
and writing for over a whole century.
Anxiety, depression,
An undiagnosed disease.
Hiding under smiles and laughs
So nobody saw me.
Twelve years-old and so confused
By the media displays.
I tried to be just like them
Crisp, white pages fluttering in the wind
Calling out to me
To write.
I am my words.
My ideas.
And my journal stores them all.
It is my companion,
My ally.
Without it, I would be stranded
Supportive, dependable, yet completely silent.
Tells stories of complete fiction and the happiest of memories
In a language only comprehensible to me.
There for me when I need to cry
A journal is a simple thing, with lines, or blank.
Freedom to express yourself. I would bring a journal.
Documenting my life.
My turmoil.
My strife, my joy...
Happiness.
Solitude,
I have many universes in my hands
They go beyond the limitations of this concrete world
My hands instead hold countless worlds crafted by graphite and sweat
The last thing I'd thought I had lost,
my thick oversized journal I wished I had it then,
And not stacked in boxes, my hubby has his prized books in
Those infallible words, and thoughts, and reflections and poems
It's not a special book,
like the ones you see on TV,
but it's mine and it means a lot to me.
It doesn't have sparkles on the cover,
like the ones the pretty girls have,
I write in you
My mother says it’s childish
My innermost thoughts
My secrets
Locked safely in the tear wrinkled pages of your tattered spirit
Burdened with my shameful exploits of debauchery and lust
I know your fears,
And sense you tears,
I know your dreams,
And sense your smile gleam.
Although you share with me
What others will not see,
I am silenced by your brushing hand,
I know your fears,
I sense your tears,
I know your dreams,
And sense your smile gleam.
Although you share with me
What others will not see,
I am silenced by your brushing hand,
Facing the dedication plaque of The East Coast Memorial in Battery Park,sat a navy spiral bound with a worn post-it note upon the cover.Head slightly tilted, I scoff at the carelessness of some kids.
If you were to visit my elementary school playground between my 3rd and 6th grade years you could find a
They say write to my hearts consent, or to my thoughts represent, a image or a goal, or till I host a flag on a pole, by which am I writing because it is written, or am I writing because I am different, I see myself as my world but I'm on one, an
Round and colorful, they play with me
I blow them little, big, they are funny
They dance in a big open space
Some like to pop in my face
Until all that's left are three
Every day she walks alone, through the drabby halls.
Whispers follow her wherever she goes, as though they come from the walls.
She pulls the sleeves of her hoodie further and further down,
if i could have a starry night, i would.
if i could have a chance to breath the misty air, i would.
if i could dance along the darken path, i would.
the stars are my light and the fireflies are my guide.
I lost my Journal and didn't know what to think.
I looked for it everywhere but thought maybe someday it will randomly appear.
I cleaned my room. I cleaned my car. I even cleaned spaces in the house where I thought it could be.
She forgot me.
She forgot all about me.
And yet, I am made entirely of her-
(that is, my content is her.
My pages are thin slices of trees, which
At times when things are hopeless;
Ones you love are far away;
Remember the cheer and laughter
From a long-gone day.
