Some nights end better when everything is written down. A diary becomes a place to sort out thoughts during the day. It's very late now but I wanted to do something else before I lay down to bed. So, let me leave you with a small poem.
A little book of thoughts for stories told,
feelings sought, mentioned and called.
The thoughts that sits heavy in my head,
My ink becomes the words unsaid.
The pages keep what I won’t show,
The quiet highs, the hidden lows.
Small victories I barely name,
Sharp regrets that feel the same.
No polished lines, no need for art,
Just honest words pulled from the heart.
Messy letters, crossed-out line,
No need for courtesy or being fine.
You never judge the things I write,
The petty thoughts, the private fight.
You take them in without a sound,
And keep them safe, couldn't be found.
Some entries burn with passion and fire,
Some barely stretch because you get tired.
Yet each one marks a passing day,
A timestamp of stories won’t fade away.
Years from now, when pages thin,
I’ll trace the ink of who I’ve been.
A quiet record, plain and true,
A life once lived inside of you.
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