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
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.