I Set them Free, in my Diary.

Under your bed, hides a memory -
a distant thought covered in dust.
Some call it my diary. I call it my misery:
the pages I entrusted my words
as if they were to be pigeons - birds,
delivering emotions back to me.

When I wrote them in my journal,
I set my feelings free. I let them fly.
I gave the pages my trust
that when I read my words,
my emotions would return to my soul.
But it's been days,
my diary's absence doesn't let me live.

My heart feels dull, I feel like a dropout .
I can't sleep. I feel captive, inactive, unexpressive. . .
a little bit unsentisitive, nothing seems attractive
I think I'm repulsive when I'm unproductive
so I can't help but try to adjust.

Yet every night while I sit outside in the porch
stars dazzle my eyes,
until a gust of wind makes me feel like a torch
like a torch out in the open
for everyone to see its flame flip in every direction
one spark at a time
till the wind extinguishes its fire sublime

then I'm reminded of the pages
that must be flipping one each night
delivering my emotions to the wrong person.

And I-

I don't even remember what it feels to cry.

Written by: Lucero L.

Mar 17, 2014