The Journal, Old and Bound
Ink humming beneath my hand,
a whisper stirs within the pages,
soft as ash, patient as rain.
"You wrote of old steel, tangled high,"
"but forgot the hands that bled behind."
It hums and murmurs low,
a machine of dust and gold,
wondering why it’s grown so old.
It writes and whispers still,
judgments from within,
on words I haven’t written yet,
but always would have been.
"Your madness is from within,"
"fake and hidden, just like me."
"Memories and madness, all buried deep,"
"ashamed of judgment and of grief."
Why do you mock me so?
Like a lover hating me so.
I wander away, the humming behind,
still wondering why.
Simple and clean as it is,
I leave the haunting journal behind,
in the desk, far away.
Yet I look once again;
we try and try again,
but all it is, is a book again.
Ink humming beneath my hand,
a whisper stirs within the pages,
soft as ash, patient as rain.
"You wrote of old steel, tangled high,"
"but forgot the hands that bled behind."
It hums and murmurs low,
a machine of dust and gold,
wondering why it’s grown so old.
It writes and whispers still,
judgments from within,
on words I haven’t written yet,
but always would have been.
"Your madness is from within,"
"fake and hidden, just like me."
"Memories and madness, all buried deep,"
"ashamed of judgment and of grief."
Why do you mock me so?
Like a lover hating me so.
I wander away, the humming behind,
still wondering why.
Simple and clean as it is,
I leave the haunting journal behind,
in the desk, far away.
Yet I look once again;
we try and try again,
but all it is, is a book again.