You are that diary entry—
written in a frantic scrawl,
you are those tattered pages
that have been dog-eared,
twisted in every which way.
I've run my trembling finger over
the well-known lines.
The broken spine,
the lop-sided angle
you've decided to balance on.
And every memory,
every soliloquy and
every good for nothing sketch,
all the ink that's been shed...
Every key beaten into submission.
Demanded—expected creativity.
An ocean howling
the could have beens,
the should have beens
—and murmuring my name.
