Solid shadows, all shadows of myself
Dear Diary, buried, scurried letters;
Or these here, pompous, purple, unfettered,
Falling asleep, purposed, proper, top shelf.
Dear Diary, you talk back about things
Fantastic ago, now so prosaic,
So matter-of-factly elegiac,
Permanent vacation’s ego jottings.
Dear Diary, still here I see. Really, why?
Thursday you know and Sunday, that one too
Giving away secrets with scribbled ease.
Is it you or me, Dear Diary? Please
Own up to those blessed you confess unto –
Sure, tell me it all and then I won’t pry.
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