Turn The Day

Newborn day.
Million things to say.
A fresher way.
A brand new page.

My life is written In the empty pages
of a little black book.

Invisible ink.
Perpetual creation.
Masterful evasion of reality.

Yesterbook cannot be forgotten.
Nor remembered at the same time
As the present reoccurs.

We can make no promises
past tomorrow.
And tell only stories
About yesterday.

...and will forever be newer than a mountains rain.
I shall fill it with so many words,
Memories and Aspirations.
Destructions, reductions, renovations and revelations.
Nuances, Truances, Seances and Parallations.
And so god damn much more that words will wither unto truth.
Falsehoods unveiled, Fiction entaled, Imagination rerailed.
And even less will make sense,
As I meander around the page.
Searching for a place to lay my pen,
Perhaps a soft breast Or shoulder.
Yet I get colder, locked in a refrigerated heart.
Wondering in my cowardice If I shouldn't give up and
Turn the day.