Dear Diary

Dear Diary,
  I'm sorry I haven't written to you in a while
I was given adult responsibilities and forgot about you
  Diary I must ask, are you just a child's version of a
  therapist?
A small child with tiny painted hands will write about boys and
gossip and how the stork can deliver all those babies on time
  But an adult goes to a certified person, their chipped hands
  shake as they cry mortgage and concerned their spouses are
  cheating on them
A child will run home with eager hands and pen creativity and unadulterated imagination and dot their I's with hearts and empty their life with pen and paper
  An adult will crawl to a psych major in a pants suit and drown
  about a life long gone and the women will mark down how much
  narcotics it will take to make this person better, illegible
  pen to paper
Better
  Better by social standards
But better none the less

Dear Diary,
  I'm scared, and I know you've heard this before because I have
  written it in every ink and every font
Red, blood, black, blue, like bruises and blackened eyes
  I hope perhaps one of them will portray the terror I feel
I'm scared of growing up
  I'm scared I'm already grown up
I'm scared of adult responsibilities
  And every more scared of the waiting for them to truly arrive
How naive of the chick to fear the troubles of a hawk

Dear Diary
  Sometimes when my parents yell at me about being attentive and
  growing up I think of how hard I want to fuck my girlfriend
  against a wall

Dear Diary
  I'm sorry I haven't written in a while
But I must tell you I realized I'm terrified of getting better
  Getting better means that I start to feel again
And feeling means that there will be happy to counter the sad
  Rather then just feeling sad
And then
  (Ironically enough)
I fear the fear of getting better
  I'm scared of not wanting to help myself
Dearest Diary,
  I'm rambling

Dear Diary,
  Sometimes you remind me of a god
The concept of a being listening to every sin and secret being poured to them and being begged for answers to questions once thought unfathomable
  Dear god why do I have cancer?
  Dear Diary, why do I have cancer?
  Dear god why did she leave?
  Dear Diary, why did she leave?
A force conceived to be so powerful and expanse
  And yet so far away
Dearest Diary, start answering my prayers

Dear Diary,
  On the concept of getting better
  I realized I started to fear death again
  When hollow as a barrel cactus
  Death was never a second thought
  But know I fear to cross the street
  Because death is inescapable
  And I can't fathom leaving so early
  So many paintings left unfinished
  So many kisses left of my lips
  And not hers
  I don't want to get better

Dear Diary,
  When insomnia is my only friend I like to watch the shadows
  casted by passing cars outside my window and think about their
  stories
And their stories make me think of my stories and my stories make me sad
  So I stay awake
Dearest diary I hate being awake
  Staring at white walls makes me uncomfortable
And maybe that's why I masturbate
  Because the post self-coital breath catching helps lull me
  into a sleep and dreams containing her and it makes me feel
  better about my actual stories and not the stories my brain
  makes up for me
Maybe that's why I scrawl to you with bloodshot tired eyes

Dearest Diary,
Goodnight