When the pages of the old diary became stronger, the words in it became weaker.
I noticed that the meaning of these bad organized phrases were the same as the ones in my heart.
At first I thought that this old diary was meaningless, until I read my old feelings in it.
The old feelings that oddly visited the new ones.
They were similar, but not the same.
One was overoptimistic and long lasting.
The other one was sad and unknown.
Across the time, my feelings changed.
Not in "easy to notice" gaps.
But I was getting more insecure and hopeless.
Somehow I couldn't see the innocent, positive feelings within me anymore.
The melancholic pages became stronger.
The old handwritten words were worthless.
And my heart didn't get better.
I was in a cavernous place where everything went Deja-vu.
Nothing real occurred.
Nothing amusing helped.
Tears weren't real anymore.
They became poems and never went back.
And as much as I tried to change for the better, it never did.
The pages got harder to rip and my heart got harder to brake.
YOU ARE READING
Transparent Rain.
PoetryRemind me that the sparkles I see around her are imaginary. I felt like a dork asking her how did she get those beautiful stars, also called eyes.
