Poem: Diary

Old and stale from salty tears my pages lie in yellowing splendor. Though I am aged and weathered, my spine a broken stroke, I can remember everything you've ever trusted to my confidences and can say with a clear conscience that I have kept them safe. The pattern of a spring time scene upon my skin has long since been ripped and wrinkled but you and I remember it well seeing as it became a warm and familiar symbol to us both.
Come to me, dear broken child, and I will take your fears and hide them deep between your written lines of tragedy parallel to a Shakespearean script. I remain locked as to safeguard every secret stimulating truth about the parts of your soul I treasure up. I understand you, sweet girl, I have compassion on your naive tender heart. To listen to you is my pleasure for you are what gives me purpose in this world.
Forget me not, precious princess, for I will always be here to hold your heart in my safe and gentle grasp. When it seems there is no where to turn I promise I will be here, open as ever, to keep your trust as none other can. I will always understand.

A dumb ole poem

An overpowering emotion, an unquenchable thirst. A tantalizing temptation just beyond one's grasp. Starched ambition like over washed sheets and ascending aspirations that soar far higher than such young eaglets can fly. Fire is fed by the kindling power of these unreachable goals. Failure creates the most intricately woven patterns of tapestry, tessellating lust that repeats and grows.
These are the deepest abyssal feelings of desire. Spreading like locust plagues from one fingertip to every permeable cell that can possibly be infected. Ocean waves of pressure to attain the unattainable dash upon one's soul like rocks upon the shoreline. But far deeper there is a ferocious force hiding like the stalking lion with nothing but succulent seduction slinking in it's powerful haunches.
This combustable lust's engine is made of envy: green like emerald boas and slippery as the escaping assailants. Envy of king's glory, and heroes' praise invent this passion for pain. This carnal wish for victory is what makes inventors invent, runners run and predators to prey.