Phatetic

Dear diary. This will become the umpteenth time I turn to pages. The umpteenth time that my pen on the white sheets of paper let slip. My feelings tell you again and again, and still you live with me. You never speak to me. It seems like we are in the same world, if you're a book. People often do not understand me, something you do. They think you're just a book, but you're not. You are not just a book. You're special even though you're out of paper. You're the only one who cares about me. The only one who passed on nothing, and keep everything for themselves. Thank you. Thanks for letting me time and time again I can cry with you.