i remember a good friend of mine
(past tense)
she was everything.
and she had this unbelievable way
of transforming her life into exactly
what she wanted it to be
and i don't mean this in a deep way,
but quite superficially. she
had a nice room, good clothes
and just lived how she thought
would make her happy
often i was jealous of her
because she seemed to express
something beyond words with words
some type of burden with each syllable
that just pulled on those nerves
and it just hit you.

it wasn't anything spectacular
in fact i could never really put my finger
on what made it special
it wasn't clever
it wasn't even trite or original
it just was.
now i see that it was just
honest
something that i've now taken
into my writings that nobody reads
and there is some comfort in knowing
that i am alone with my own thoughts
and there is some sort of satisfaction
knowing that it's there
it's available
anyone in the world can read my thoughts
right here
and yet nobody does
it feels horribly clever to hide something
as valuable as thoughts
here in the view of all
where journals and diaries
are such temptations