Remember pages,
Remember stages
Of my days of diary.
Remember pages,
Remember wages
Paid to keep my diary.
Forget the details,
Forget the fails
Listed in my diary.
Forget the details,
Forget the wails
Littered through my diary.
I remember they kept me prisoner for years, those leather bound volumes kept hidden away. Each night they would call and I’d slave away with pencil or pen transferring my travails onto paper.
I’d glue clippings too, and crudely drawn pictures of things seen, those loved; slogans, poems, quotes...
I remember there were changes as time went by, as I moved between bands or pen preference, styles, magazines, newspapers; the whole epoch itself was divided into eras.
It took its toll, though, ground me down as I wore the pencil’s nib or drained the pen’s ink. I carried on because it felt vital to me, it carried me through. I paid to crest along neatly.
Looking at them now, talking to others, I realise I’ve also forgotten much. Wrongs committed are barely mentioned or not listed; the endless whining of inaction and the absence of real life: everything that made me stop, everything that makes me glad those days are done.
And yet I fondly remember pages hidden in my diary and the release- the abandon that
was all the liberation I needed and desired. My room was all the world, all the stage, I required. I adored those times at the time, and I survived those times thanks to those pages.
Remember stages
Of my days of diary.
Remember pages,
Remember wages
Paid to keep my diary.
Forget the details,
Forget the fails
Listed in my diary.
Forget the details,
Forget the wails
Littered through my diary.
I remember they kept me prisoner for years, those leather bound volumes kept hidden away. Each night they would call and I’d slave away with pencil or pen transferring my travails onto paper.
I’d glue clippings too, and crudely drawn pictures of things seen, those loved; slogans, poems, quotes...
I remember there were changes as time went by, as I moved between bands or pen preference, styles, magazines, newspapers; the whole epoch itself was divided into eras.
It took its toll, though, ground me down as I wore the pencil’s nib or drained the pen’s ink. I carried on because it felt vital to me, it carried me through. I paid to crest along neatly.
Looking at them now, talking to others, I realise I’ve also forgotten much. Wrongs committed are barely mentioned or not listed; the endless whining of inaction and the absence of real life: everything that made me stop, everything that makes me glad those days are done.
And yet I fondly remember pages hidden in my diary and the release- the abandon that
was all the liberation I needed and desired. My room was all the world, all the stage, I required. I adored those times at the time, and I survived those times thanks to those pages.
FYI: 250 (Jumbled) Words - follow Jumbled tag for others from it, too.
