Dear Jorurnal

Dear Journal,
Where are your lines?
The security to confide?

Don't know what i'm talking about right?

I said where is the trust?
The burial of my sweet cursive words.
It isn't so personal,
After all my thoughts are inked,
Tattooed on to your shallow skin.

Yes you are shallow.

Quick to listen
But never a peep.

You are nothing more than a release,
A quick fix.
Something like meth or a kiss.

A kiss is a fix?

Why yes let me explain.

See when you kiss it's an imaginary moment.
You either imagine rose pedals among a white dress or
Rose pedals among the satin sheets.
Either way it is a fix because it isn't real.
You are no where else then in the very same room you came in.

So where does the journal come in?

It comes in to pick up the rusted pieces of your so called "fix"
It cleans the wounds of your freshly painted skin you call a tattoo.

So here is the who.
The truth is that i really love you.