I am the torn page of a dusty diary in a musty old rack,
Untouched for a generation, the silent observer in this rusty old shack…
I have faced the raw white face of youth,
The willowing times that flew by & the solitude ending in silence and gratitude…
But all I could make out was the layers of human skin,
That differed among the kind…
The feelings they once penned in me as their treasures,
Followed by their separation of guilty pleasures…
I have seen them ride life on a stallion,
And viciously turning like a chameleon…
I have loved their friendship and grit,
I despised their selfishness in the heat…
I admired their joyous cries,
While I hated their cunning lies…


So many layers, so many frames…
Not enough for a mind in a single life to tame…
They lay bare, just yearning for someone to tend,
But why do they always pretend…
With loads of happiness on the go,
But depression and anxiety are the seeds we sow…

I think it’s too complicated…
Because as time heals, it also brings regret.
And they end up just like me…
Mazed in debt that’s never set…