on journaling

Buried deep in the crevices of this my friend

Lay unspoken dreams, and shadows therein.

White pages have patience the living do not;

Words cannot utter the comfort they’ve brought

Me while wandering silent through unlighted woods,

While in quest of knowing logic the best I should.

The nonsensical ramblings I now call my own

Have inside only me: They’re my own home.

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