In my room, there is a book

I keep it hidden on the shelf.

I take careful note to ignore it

Every time I pass it by.

This book chooses to draw me in

When it knows I’m feeling better.

It whispers to me through its voice of ink

It says, “come closer”

“Just read for a bit”

It won’t take long

To travel down memory lane.

I tend to fall victim to this book,

For its author is my very own self.

It is my journal from what seems like long ago,

But really, it’s barely been a year.

All it takes is a scan of those pages

And I am Dante, transported to hell

For my mind remembers all too well

Writing those words that were the embodiment

Of the chaos writing, writhing! In my mind.


That journal-

With its devious flowers and decorative leaves

Is Pandora’s box reincarnated

For in it I spewed his evil

From his mouth, to my mind, to those pages.

And all it takes is my finger

Running over the words,

Cracking open the binding.


I have created something beyond my control.


I must hide it better next time.



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