It's kind of funny,
I've written twenty different paragraphs on this weary page,
in this tired journal,
and I just keep on erasing...
over and over; pink rubber dust piling on this black table.
And every single word that emerges from my pencil's lead,
seems to say nothing about you or I; just a grey stream of mediocrity
temporarily inscribed in a book that has lost it's plot.

It's past midnight in my room,
the lamp on my bedside table aglow-
I'm met with vacant pages in my journal,
but I stare out my window, because I think my eyes would rather see the
night, than see the dreaded truth within my heart.
 
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