The page in Theodore Roosevelt's diary, the day where both his mother and wife died within hours of each other.
Short breaths, quick and sharp,
It frustrates you, but I can't slow down
My lungs exhausted, petrified,
I'm not ready to leave this town.
But time sends me forward now
And southbound I am traveling
To what I thought I knew as home,
Though that idea is unraveling.
The body I possess is suffering,
With pain behind the green eyes
Thoughts race through my young mind,
That what was new is now what dies.
A family, broken and at the end,
Or what I pray is just a phase
I look for ways to come back home,
And be in your arms, like better days.
Question of the blog:
Do you write in any type of journal or diary?
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