viciously, i tear pages out of my old notebooks
diary entries of feelings i don't have anymore
memories that i'd rather not remember.
i toss journals in the trash
entire chapters of my life
crumpled and thrown away
memories of old friends and
old thoughts that aren't
tangible anymore.
there's no evidence,
no notebook in my room
that they can hide in.
i can't touch them —
they can't touch me —
anymore.
i only wish that i could rip out
memories from my head, too,
and be rid of endless toxicities,
cleansed and reborn.
but i suppose that these pages
full of both blissful naïvety and
premature tragedy, have taught
me lessons, as all good books do.
i will grow infinitely
stronger and tougher
because of these stories,
but i will keep my
softness and sensibility
close to my heart.
the world will not
make me cold hearted,
nor will it make me
weak and codependent.
i am throwing away these
pages voluntarily.
i am choosing to be free.
i will forever choose my own life.
i will forever choose my own path.
i will forever choose to write
and rewrite and tear up
my own pages.
i'm the editor and publisher of my own story,
and i am deciding that it's time to move on.
YOU ARE READING
recycled poetry
Poetry❝i wish i was writing something special, but these words have been used before and there's no originality to it at all. i'm just reusing phrases until they're worn out, like musty library books or hand-me-down clothes.❞ from ❛hand-me-down poetry❜ i...
