incoherent thoughts

In a vain attempt
and yet again, I lift the pen
I look at my diary
I recall the promise I made to myself
I'll write my feelings, no, true feelings.

Sometimes I wonder why did I make that promise
Is this a means to vent out my feelings?
but that is true only when I do vent them out, but, do I?

I'll write around the point, I'll beat the bush
but whenever I write the feeling itself, my hands advance and tear out the page
My poor diary has been depleted of many half written pages by now
it looks at me, as if consoling me, "I'll keep them safe"
But the distrustful creature that God made men, I don't trust it

Past the darkness, I look out of my window
I see lights in the windows and spiritless shadows
"Ah, they all are the same", my heart tells me;
in their listlessnesses I find comfort

I raise my pen and write down 'an eventful day'
I do not realise how effortlessly I scribe 2 whole pages,
listing down the events of the day,
talking of my friends I met at lunch,
describing the chat at the workplace.
I sign it and put down the pen.

As I close my diary, it smirks at me silently
but I could still hear the unspoken -
'what a dastard!'