Writings

Double yellow lines That break and reconnect As if it knows my life And it's painting it down On badly paved roads That will be fixed hundreds of times Before reaching it's end. I'm going To go Man made paths of destinations I follow A failure to direction reading Being lost, seems roads never end Patience is knowing they always break And regroup withone Back seat driver Time without thought My mind vacation Filtered in a drive Another place to become Familiar with A common drive through A thoughtless path of New memories on our Short Road Trip We're traveling 100,000 miles is where I'd rather be 500 is where were going It's our day away.

My life seems as if its an open book Open to the world to read. My cover tells nothing of the story written on my pages. My spine is not yet a hardcover. My chapters used to have great endings in the lie i was living. Now it's just a page turner, Strong on page 30, Weak again on page 31. I leave my inside reader with a real story of a hopeless romantic, trials, tribulations, uprooted supressed feelings, depression, eating habits, headaches, stress, drama, love, hate, trust issues, friends forever and aquentences. I leave my outside readers who question all NOTHING they don't understand, ignorant and illiterate to all i've become. My index only reaches to where i feel safe In the past few years theirs only some i would reference the rest is mine to keep away. Noone needs those truths my insiders already lived it and have placed itin thier own books. My book is not yet ruined, I wish i could rip out pages and rewrite them to some day remove myself from this chapter. All i can do is revise and start living Chapter to Chapter.