Book of memories

 

In my chair I'm stuck.

A prisoner to myself,

my book of memories

pours open into my lap.

I let my eyes look

at the liquid reflecting back.

The dripping pages,

on the paper

a war rages.

 

I sit with eyes transfixed,

not wanting to see

the words take life

but unable to look aside.

Nor do I want the pictures

to take flight

Or the worlds to transform

into reality,

become the only world I see.

Where the words

come back to bite me.

 

I feel the paper edges,

sharp as knives.

Dripping blood

over the words inside,

bleeding from paper cuts.

Self-inflected.

Did I cut

to make my eyes turn away?

Some form of mercy.

But my eyes don't stray

on the page they stay.

 

I look at the words within,

start to let them breathe

and they sing to me.

They paint a picture

in sounds, a symphony

that I struggled to believe.

They told me what I'd lost

was not to be found,

but in my moments of sadness,

not to be down.

That the stories

I'd created in my mind,

were being unkind.

I wasn't always to blame

and the world seemed

a little more whole again.

 

 

 

Thanks for reading

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Peace, Love and Poetry 

 

Kyle