It had been over a year
Since I had written in my journal
So obviously, I had to look back through it
The pages were old
The letters were fading
Even some written in pencil
Had begun to erase themselves
And yet, why does it feel like just yesterday
I wrote these pieces in the dead of night
Why does it feel like the words are smoke
That burn my eyes and forces them to cry
Why do the pages feel heavy, not of weight
But fear, like right when you're about to
Turn out the light of a long dark hallway
And still have to walk through
Why do the pages feel sharper than a knife
And make me wish it had been those that cut
Through my veins instead
Why does a book that I've held so dear
Cause so much anguish in my heart
To the point where it threatens to stop beating
But at this point, it wouldn't be a threat at all
More like a remedy
Why would I ever want to show this to anyone
YOU ARE READING
Beautiful Enough To Frame
PoetryTwo years in the making. Two years of my life put into words. There is nothing more left to say.
