A confession: I have stopped writing my diary.
Why immortalise yesterday's noisy monsters
when the angels are so devilishly quiet?
With sadness, I saw that there were far more
brine-blotched lines amongst the heavy leaves
than sharp, crisp pirouettes of the pen -
why would anyone want to read words crafted from
and garnished in their own tears anyway?
I will hold a rose and devour its beauty;
I will not document the thorns that they may
prick me again.
I will make love to the wind
and remember how I came to rest on the rain clouds,
but I will not lament my precipitation.
Dreams desert us so very quickly,
while nightmares fester in our marrow;
Oh Ben. Swoon! (and sigh). How I have missed reading your beautifully spun work.
This piece is so multi faceted. The main theme (in my opinion) is one of religious guilt/confusion. You refer to angels, devils and confessions. Who are you confessing to?
At the same time is reveals a wondrous moment of self-realisation ... if the diary entries are mostly sad, and reading them therefore makes you sad, and realising that most of the entries are sad - further adding to the sadness ... then the writing of it merely creates a self fulfilling prophecy ... so better to stop writing in it!
Absolutely marvellous poetry Ben! :-) x
Thank you, Milly.
I remember writing in a diary a couple of years back and actually omitting parts that I didn't like about myself and my actions. Then I wrote a poem called "Black Diary". I don't know what happened to it, but there was a line that read "To lie in your diary, now that is deceit...". Anyway, I gave up writing one not long after.