the notebook

sitting on broken benches
we stare out tiny windows
like broken old men
reliving middle school glories

three, two, one

time drips in and out
with thoughts that are
slippery and elusive
and it seems
charcoal lips
speak words
to positive
and terrible to hear
as we try to conceive
how to do the wrong thing
the right way

healing takes time
so the question is
do we wait for insanity to pass us by
or let it settle in for the long haul

minds are not like
computer hard drives
in the absence of
an internal delete button
we risk choosing to repeat
an altered fantasy
in hopes of a better outcome
(that is the moment when insanity arrives)

the only protection it seems
is pen and paper

this notebook you gave me
has saved me
i think you knew it would

thank you




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