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.

The City

In the city of glass,
of sparkling steel,
of rainbowed mirrors,
night is.
It's all that has been,
and all that will be.
Night is.

Streetlights and homelights,
like so many fireflies,
bloom and illuminate paths
for the smallest eon of time-
but it's never long enough.

And I stand in the city,
alone.
Paths bloom around me
as I watch in vain.

Emotions crecendo.

The rain comes.
Slowly, it blankets the city,
sliding over
steel and glass and mirrors.

I lift up my face and hands.
The rain is welcomed
in pathlights reflecting
off my tears.

*Poet's Note: I wrote this poem while listening to Coldplay's "Fix You." You could read this poem with it in the backround. I tried to capture some of the incredible power of that song, as well as some of my own feelings.

Wist

I had hoped.

It wasn't much and it wasn't the same,
but it was there-
glimmering, budding, somehow springing up
during the
dead, cold wasteland
of winter.

It wasn't the old flower, and I was glad.

But it was a dandilion, a weed of the soul-
Nay, a weed of the heart.

Just a weed.
No more,
No less.
Was it less?

And with but an exhale of regret
-mist clouding my vision-
I leaned down, eyes wide,
and plucked the weed.

I had hoped.
Was it less?