The Diary

I put my diary to torch:
What's day before is smoke today,
It has trespassed the hearty porch,
Rugged handwriting, sloped, they say.

It laughed by now, cried by then,
As foe it never did or said,
It suffered for me, anywhen,
And me defended straight ahead!

It’s seen so much, that to my glee,
I wondered how it held each day,
It labored ever just for free,
At every line it slaved away.

In days of yore, it drove me wild,
It was poised for, my soul to tear,
It was demanding, never mild,
It was relentless, and severe.

It was curmudgeon, all the time,
And clingy was, alike vampire,
But seven minutes rang a chime,
And we no longer built rampire.

It used to be, when for some time,
I left it over there, forgotten,
But it was not a vice of mine,
Or just revenge, long time begotten.

Thereafter we, chased our bait,
It’s jaunty, – It did make me laugh.
We should’ve got even with fate,
But… text shrink from fire stuff.

And yellow flamelet’s hungry blaze,
Bewails it, crackling, for the past,
The notebook’s leafs in burning rays,
Seems like whole life to flames is cast.