Dear Diary

Funny how when I write diary entries,

they're nothing but cryptic,

just in case someone else manages to read it,

because my fear consumes me,

and Roosevelt was right,

as the only thing to fear

is what keeps me up at night.

People underestimate words on a page,

but it dictates every single way

we move and interact

each day and how the world

conducts business

without us,

without me,

and I sit here wondering what's wrong,

why can't I see

some words have used me

their appeal, too strong,

and I couldn't tell them

how wrong it'd be to follow

every move they make

leaving me stranded

abandoned

by my own mistakes.

It's hard to claw at the truth

when it hides, evades,

and no matter what you want

it just won't stay,

maybe it's supposed to be

impossible to find

cause I haven't taken the time

to stop reflecting

on such derelict

themes and open my eyes

to what's new to seize,

it means something

when you've closed yourself off

and every sound

every option

seems like another damn wall

and maybe

it's hard to know when

you're always told stop

instead of go.