Hide (or the kind of poems one writes while listening to High Violet by The National)

Everyday appears the same
from beginning to end
with details in between

You don't see the whole
of, and if you ask,
I will only tell you

In terse half truths
you won't remember
the beginning and end of.

It's my way of living
in the overlooked silence
of the world

That after an age,
discovered like a diary
on the dust strewed floor

Which you then read
from beginning to end of,

Filled you full with regrets.