It's a thin, fragile book
you would keep in a desk
the cover is elegant
and the pages, a mess
In black and red ink
stories scribbled and scrawled
and the ones that burn most
are the ones most recalled
Not a scratch on its surface
no smudges or stains
but the paper still aches
a hunger in its veins
This book is a map
and if you look closely
it resembles a heart
so worn, almost ghostly.
So if I am to lose you
let me lose quickly
don't erase it too slow
when I've loved you so dearly.
With the curtains thrown wide
we see the world gray
and we know it's the fault of our own
Spent far too long
bearing crown, sword, and shield
I write in pen
to get comfortable with my mistakes
to catch all my thoughts
scatterbrained
and fleeting
pens scratch the itch to write
better than any graphite
the use of ink before pencils
I never thought I'd be 16
nor thought the grass would still be green.
At 5 I met my oldest friends
who I still talk to now and then.
At 6 and 7, all through 10
Nostalgic blurs remain of them.
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