My Journal is not safe.
My journal is not some comforting paradise
for me or my thoughts.
It does not harbor my secret feelings
in hopes that maybe they can be
romantically frozen in time,
so that someday, "when I'm better"
I can handle them productivly
in the way of other functioning human beings,
My journal is the bloodies,
most destructive plane
on the battefield of my own personal
It is my front line;
my perpetual rows of soldiers that I command to
die for me
without the slightest flicker of
My edge is to live,
murdering until I can prove
that it's not just the words that bleed.
My journal is special in the goryiest way,
scratching down my pain almost as efficiatly as my blade;
It's the most violently beautiful thing, if you're looking at the outside.
The ugliness inside chokes on no particular story,
just the sickness of the emotion on every page.
It's full of ghosts, and crawling with regrets that, much like me,
only look out for themselves.
The soldiers long fallen are not to be pittied,
and would sooner come back to life
and bite off your head.
My journal is dangerous;
a weapon in my hands, that
could either make me,
or bring me to my knees.
It's all in my power to keep myself from bleeding
unless it's my blood that's being written on the page.
My portable battle,
breaking in my place
and letting every broken soldier
being made to
wear my face.