I have been writing in a journal on an almost-daily basis since I was 17 years old. This is a record of me going through each entry from the beginning, and commenting on the me from fifteen years ago.

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Then there’s these days, the days when it’s going good and it’s going bad. Just a day. Nothing special, nothing spectacular, either bad or good. Just a day.

When the day passed me by, I never had the chance, To love or cry it away, To find it and dance.

Someday will come tomorrow, Hopefully I won’t be gone, Too much sorrow, Never be another song.

Boredom has got to be the worst reason in the world to write poetry.