Diaries
The yellow and frayed eternal pages
Are crying with blue ink and look the same.
The years turn to words and seem like ages
Of grief in such a thin and subtle frame.
This memory-evoking prose of sorrow
Is life... or scattered pieces, left of it.
I'm waiting for the better new tomorrow
And learning to accept the worst defeat.
These words have got me back to times of glory,
My tears wash this bitter ink away,
I can't believe it's me who wrote this story,
I wouldn't dare say the same today.
I cut my hand while touching reminiscence;
I'm brought to life by strong and sudden pain.
The paper's edge is sharp and torn to pieces,
And all that's left is just another stain.
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