dear diary

When I was younger and had no light grey clouds crawling in and out of my mind as if I was just a temporary home for them for the sparkling night, I used to write in diaries as if it was a job I’d dreamed about since I was born.

My hand would ache after I poured my river onto the creme pages.

But then, when secondary school slowly passed by, the need to have my hand interact with the pen and paper like what I loved to do when I was younger disappeared like an imaginary ghost that used to float in the skies of the night, hoping that a dream would creep into my mind.

But then poetry entered my life like a new boyfriend who has promised to always stay with me.

It begged for me to pour my water-filled emotions into it like a cup, and it promised to throw it out at the end of the night while I drowned in another dreamless sleep. It wanted me to pretend my world wasn’t crumbling around me like in cliché T.V. shows people would watch during the weekend as they would try to turn off their minds.

Poetry would sing at the top of its lungs whenever I sat in front of a screen as I began painting my blueness into black words. Poetry wrapped its arms around me as I rested my fingers on the keyboard while I waited for Poetry to hand me a cluster of words that wanted to be heard.

When I was younger, I had no light grey clouds that would follow me around, wanting to dance with me like a husband I don’t yet have.

When I was younger, I used to flow words on the cream pages whenever I had the time.

But then, when those light grey clouds consumed me, Poetry was there, ready to wrap me in its warm hug.

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