To rebel is to love…

The diary doesn’t hold secrets
It holds my rebel.
It holds my definition for you
as my favourite fruit,
as a platonic cat,
as any enamoured materialistic thing
with non-existent adjectives
making grammatical errors
along the way
misusing punctuation
but never you.
You my age of twenty-one,
You my little dreams,
You my 10 rules of winning in life,
You my sky and analysis of it.

I ain’t afraid if anyone
gets hold of my diary.
Cause it won’t make sense at all.
It doesn’t have to
Like my love for you.
No one can understand
but me.


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