Is my appearance uneasy?
Does my darkness expose—darkened spirits,
And a vessel in need of mending?
Have my scarlet relatives,
Evoked only the most cherished desires?
—blinding you from my deaths.
When I whither,
I turn from crimson reds,
To the blackest of blacks,
I was not meant to live forever.

I thought there'd be a journal,
One we'd keep to ourselves,
To express how we felt,
and not show anyone else.

At least then we could talk,
And issues would be kept private,
Or maybe for you to understand,
The things I hold most silent.

At least I could speak to the pages,
And hope one day they'd respond,
Or maybe my writing and tear streaked lines,
with penned anger dents, and ink smeared stains of all my faults,
...Would let you see I mean no harm.

I hate how negative you are.
I hate that you do not understand me.
I hate that you believe negative rather than any positive in me.
I hate that this feels forced.
I hate that speaking to you is like a tongue fighting a knife,
--your words always did cut much deeper than mine.
I hate that you do not listen.
I hate that I have little connection with you.
I hate that you make me miss them.

I wonder if my thoughts are blocked from over thinking.
Maybe my urge to write is scarcely needed,
If I stopped writing would anyone notice?
Shall I jot my thoughts in a journal safely hiding my moments?
Self expression through words means no expression at all,
When the words no longer flow and keen fingertips lock.