(#34) Dear Diary, 28th June

The healthy human mind does not
Doubt itself, nor question itself,
To the breaking point where the host
Would rather face the grave than
Watch the sun rise over the horizon again.

The passing showers have cracked my smiles
And I cannot last another day of
Rain, then sun, repeatedly-
My skin weathers away,
I feel sick.

A week. The bitter taste of
What should have been sweet,
If only he chose to spend his thoughts
On responsibilities, not separate demands.
It is now over, a week, a representation of a year
Compressed into a dull wooden box-
Keeping in it the dead
Memories.

A spirit, a girl, like an alcohol,
Drown me, make me high but
I wake up every morning to the reality
That you will never be mine, girl.
Unless the tides turn themselves.
The waves will only drive sailors seasick.
I don't want the salt nor sand on my skin,
Your fragments rest on my heart and
They sink me like a prisoner,
Cast iron chain, lead weight.

The skies used to appear bright.
There is no silver lining, no.
Con artist, I have been mislead once again.
Ahead of me lies a shadowed path,
I cannot see anything ahead of me.
I am waiting to stumble, fall, be hurt.
My doubt places my heart in a pressure chamber-

I am too tired to fight back.