Okay, poetry, abandon my mind for a few.
Listen, paper, I don't want to use you.
Leave, art, for myself you can't consume.
Silence, music, for my heart carries no tune.
I'll echo my former self
till my shadow lays no more.
I'll hold and emotions shelf
Till dust mites my pages bore.
And hope in deafening might,
my spine could attract unseen.
She who may in fevered fight,
Brush my painful years dust clean.
And take my book, tattered, worn,
perhaps something on its cover see
That inspires a look, upon pages torn,
And glean what has been, that made me... be.
And perhaps continue reading,
in genuine intrigue.
See why my soul is bleeding,
my spine withered with fatigue
And fingers brush the old bindings,
that fraily hold me bare.
Barely holding, barely being, barely keeping, barely there...
And turn my pages gently, but with beautiful intent.
To read and gain mind entry, view the space and be content.
That, I myself conceal
something more than me
That my book is real,
and in reading, discovers the meaning behind me.
