My Book.

I write ever night and day in a special book
A book I hope you will never look
But of course the curiosity will eventually get the best of you
And now that you read it, you don't know what to do
It's a book of mine, filled with lines
Lines that scream out troubled signs
You read poems about my hurt and how I cry on my bed
You read about the torture that floods my head
You read about the poems about my hate.
You read about the poems saying you don't know what I can be
You read about my poems of life's never-ending twist
You read some more and can't help but wonder why
I think people won't care if I just suddenly die
But then you find one I wrote when I wasn't so sad
This was about a girl who realized life wasn't so bad
The girl thought positive and made it threw life
But I took that piece of paper and cut it up with a knife
Next time you see me, you will ask about my book
And will simply respond with why the hell did you look?
You think I'm troubled and need some help
But really I'm just getting out what I can't help
I see the worry in your eyes
You ask me to stop telling you lies
I write to express not to offend
I write so maybe my broken heart will mend
So don't get mad when I write late at night
Just think about it as a way for me to be less uptight


written: last year