Just Alive Enough

You write lines in the old notebook.
A story of madness and healing and constant rebuilding,
your tale, told for no one else,

stories told for you, an expunging of fears and flaws
and feelings,
a need,
a hunger,
your place of confession,
where the poison is poured out
and you are left just alive enough
to live another day.

About this poem. 

I keep a journal. I write in it almost every day. I have often said that they should be burned when I die. I don’t want anyone to know what mad train wreck I can be in my innermost thoughts.

But then, when I write, I am not a train wreck.

Dang if I can figure that one out.

Tom