A Notebook & Journal that'll hold my words as Deserved.

Looking for

notebooks or journals to buy,

for a writer, this act is a science on its own.

A drawn-out checklist

must be achieved before this purchase can be finalized;

1.) Good page quality,

2.) Ink & emotion absorbency required,

        -I wish not to worry about leaving smear marks behind or

        the need for time for the words to settle into their environment.

        I crave the security that through my writing, through the magic of words & poetics

        I am casting out demons & monsters that's lingered since childhood, 

        ill thoughts & shadows 

        that they'll stay between the lines like their dedicated rooms, to be read where they are

3.)mandatory durability,

not to mention the ability to 

lock words in place.

Trying to capture the specifics.

this search shares the sensation 

of searching for a clean slate to start over on, 

like looking for a new body to put this soul in.

My words,

often escape me,

failed me when I needed them the most.

Time has flown out of my hands,

they say time flies when you're having fun,

but when getting stuff done

within an amount of time

starts feeling like constantly failing to catch your breath

while it being just out of reach isn't what they meant.

These days all a blur &

this pain relief or not feels more like an anchor.

These lines are like bars

to put & keep all of this unpleasantry

that the world like gravity leaves you feeling is normal.

Sometimes I feel like my words

are the fruit I go forth & bare.

During those times

I feel like a witness,

a witness to my own demise,

almost as if I am out of control of my own fate

so I isolate, disassociate,

I try to put what's left of me into the words,

that I often try to disown as if that hurts less.

-Overthinker. Internally self-judgmental. Safety on, walls up like broken drawbridge. Flight responses.- 

But like bread crumbs or a gold brick road,

parts of myself scattered among the words sometimes worlds apart 

all returns

finding their way back to me,

their escape out of the abstract &

into luggage that I carry in my journals 

full of artistry & ink,

like the flesh of bones & veins,

the belief in seeing the whole picture

without overlooking the details.

I am a poet full of prose & experiences

if I don't share no one will ever know,

It's funny how it works like that.

My heart often follows the wind, the currents they create

delighted to find out where it'll go, meanwhile sometimes when I write it's more or less to elaborate what I already know.