Each new day is a blank page in the diary of your life.

I blink once and the ink appears
Though the words only rattled in my ears.
In the paper memory of my mind,
The lines bleed through one at a time.

The thoughts belong in a diary,
Each entry a new inquiry
Of the little girl I am inside
Who tries so hard to run and hide.

The words are honest and blunt
So it’s hard to put up a false front.
I don’t dare speak the words aloud
For the scared little girl is also proud.

The words pour like water in a spout
But the little girl doesn’t let them out.
“They won’t understand, it won’t make sense.
I won’t be made a fool at my own expense.”

So she keeps the words locked away
While I hope of revealing them another day.
She writes down her thoughts with every event
Who’d pay a penny when they’re less than a cent?

But if she thinks they’re worth so little
Why does she bother with every jot and tittle?
Something gnaws at her, keeps her on this track
And now that she’s started, she can’t go back.

Her bookish head is filled with pages
Of memories she’s cherished through the ages.
A few nights, she slips me a chapter
That she thinks could stand up to the laughter.

She hears their derision, their mocking cries
But I know that those are devastating lies.
I type what she’s given me, every word
although she wrote it when her vision was blurred.

So it doesn’t look pretty, doesn’t look nice
But her thoughts are clear and ideas, concise.
She never saw the words in black and white
But when you read them, they sound just right.

I know what she means, and so do they;
I ask her for more of her writing each day.
Slowly, so slowly, she’s learning to trust
Her view of the world will soon adjust.

That little girl is so scared and so proud
And the voices in her head are always loud
But I’m helping her find that this is okay,
That not every thought should be hidden away.

So that’s what this blog is, just one little piece
Of the writings that stir and won’t give her peace.
This is her life, every word and every line
And what is hers is also what’s mine.

We’re two sides of one coin, yet not the same
We’re two different people under one name.
What she writes down, she doesn’t want to show
Yet the thoughts I type are so you can know

That this blog isn’t a diary or journal
But rather a map of all things internal.
You may not like it, we don’t ask that you do
All we require is that you appreciate us two.

Even now the words come, one at a time
And I see them appear orderly all in a line.
She’s whispering them to me in my ear
And now I can see them as I type them right here.


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