Trouble.

Knock, knock said the wind.
I whirl here, thou feet of lead.
Dance with me or walk away
But you may fall, if you're unfed.

I stir the thoughts inside your soul,
And bleed you like the mountain molt--
Take my helms and cry thine tears
At my feet, in the dust, I watch you roll.

I balked at the thought of losing her--
My pride, her mind, my faultless ego.
I called her phone to hear her speak,
But her heart was gone, floated off--
or lost somewhere.

Scared...

I tip-toe through this old mess of words and thoughts, half scared, lest I trip and fall, lest I alter something. I blush at the thoughts I used to think and wonder, "Where has that boy gone?" The innocence, the confusion, the stiffled words that would only let themselves be spoken as poetry, the younger passionate version of me, the Mak 1.0...

The purity of the diary is in its ability to refract ones gaze inward, looking back on oneself like old pictures of the soul. If you were deligent enough to update frequently, you could get a clearer picture of how your mind worked then, and compare it to how it seems to work now. The trick is, the diary has to be abandoned. It has to be old. It has to be forgotten, then remembered.

Should I start blogging again? But I'm not the child I used to be. I think different, I look and feel and percieve different, everything even the food tastes different nowadays. I'm scared. A good scare.

Hi to everyone. I'm still alive.