the daily journal

i start a journal,

a diary of sorts.
i type in all the things
i can't say out loud.
it makes me realize how
untruthful I've been
with so much of my life.
telling others, everything
is just fine.
i'm good, but I've been
holding back what i really
need and want to say.
I've been polite and kind.
cautious,
like a man walking
on thin ice,
trying so hard to not
hurt anyone.

but now
i pound furiously at the keys.
i'm off the chain.
happiness is a warm typewriter!
i have so much to get out
and rail about.
I peel back the layers
of skin, get down to the bone,
the marrow,
whether right or wrong.
i don't care.
i'm running free again, at last.
no borders, no fence, no
wall to keep me in.
this is selfishly for me,

each word a nail driven hard
and fast into the paper.
I've cut a vein and use
the blood for ink.

i punch goodness
in the face
and write it all out
with vengeance and venom.
no one gets out alive.
it feels wonderful.
no punches held back.
each blow a direct hit.
part of me would like to print
out each and every page
of what I've written and
make ten thousand copies. 

i'd like to drop them from a plane,
from the tops of buildings
so that everyone could read them
and know the truth, at last.
but no. this is all vanity.

mere confetti of my brain.
i'm too much of a coward
for that
and what would be the point
anyway,
nothing would change.
would it, dear diary?