Sometimes I read my own poetry to remind myself how I felt,
All the highs, all the lows, all the wins, and all the losses.
It isn't always what I say, what dramatic descriptions I
Scribble between the blue lines that have structured
Every fleeting thought and emotion alike in their sincerity
And misconception as I perceive them as the same entity,
But what I don't say, like her name, like the time,
Because my notebook can't differentiate between every girl
That I claim is something new and special with stars in her eyes,
Ribbons in her hair, and singing sweet soft smiles for ruby lips,
And the girls that I claim belong with me instead of the nameless
Opponent that I never bothered to compete with, not only because
I’d lose, but because I’d lose, because I was never one for trying.
The prongs don't know the different days of the weeks,
Only the days that my pen comes to it with cat-scratch wisdom
And white-out solutions to all my hand-written dispositions,
Speaks only the language of metaphors and metaphors with "?"s.
I always remember where I was when I wrote those lies down,
Where I sat when I warped the truth to seem a little bit deeper,
Where I hoped that she'd someday see this and understand,
Where I wrote all the things I’d never say, all the things I wanted,
Whether it be under the hollow light of a midnight, desk-side lamp,
Under the clear blue clouds and white skies of wildflower hillsides,
Or above the distant stars with my head hanging upside-down.
It always comes back to me, no matter how I decide to write it,
Whether it be in code or reason, fact or fiction, some combination,
I can always muster the same tears of joy or grief, some combination,
Smile the same stupid smile, and laugh at the same terrible puns.
This notebook was never made for anyone at all, only memories,
In the form of words and punctuations, thoughts and emotions,
For poetry to finally sleep between the thin blue lines of my life.