Pages from a Book
Poem
I am a piece of a story
But the story doesn’t matter
It’s just me over and over again
Same shit, disguised differently
I am the cruelest irony
Draw the line and then jump right over
And do the same again, stumbling around
I am a sorrowful tale in fact
The blues from the dark nights
Where there is a promise not to light a fire
And a matchbook in my prose
There’s a house that burnt down
And burnt fingers from starting a fire
Pissing from atop mountains
To drinking from flowing rivers
There’s unkindness among human races
And scars from caring too much
Regrets that should have been buried
But someone left the grave open
There’s no place for pity here
Because I do not have mistakes
Just conscious choices and a reckless attitude
An eternal sorry feeling that actions do not entertain.
But I hope the pages after me tell another story
About how choices were made differently
And how things changed thereafter
I hope when you reach the last page
You don’t sympathize
You find it a nice read
Unlike me
And feel glad for the soul saved
Where there’s a broken cage
And infinite skies
The blues are drowning in the oceans
And the nights are moon and stars
And not the same old shit again
In another disguise
I hope there’s a sunny day
With refreshing breezes
And the past is right there in the past
Offering nothing new to the present
There’s a promise protected in a cage
And lost keys in the prose
A promise to leave things behind
The things that broke us
And everything finally is in place
There’s so much gratitude for the journey
And so much strength in the words
And all the complaints in there
Are about the city traffic
And the shitty weather.
