Poetry of a Conlanger

Thursday, October 20, 2005

Burning Book

Could someone dig the knife in a little deeper?
Throw some arsenic in my cup, please?

Let them do what they want.
They have a right to hurt me,
Even if they don’t know what they are doing.

Tear out the last page of my book,
Crumple it, soak it, let it die.
Burn the rest of the pages, go ahead.

And I see the future.
I see a figure, too, when I close my eyes.
I close them against tears as the book burns.
It’s not mine anymore.
It’s not mine anymore.

I don’t want your pity,
Push you away to sit and watch
Flakes of ash float.
One tumbles down next to me, merely charred,
And when I read the name, I run.
Running to escape from my memories.

Let it go, let it go, let it go.
It doesn’t matter anymore.
Let it go, let it go, let it go.
I only wish it was painless.

I don’t want your pity.


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