The Book

THE BOOK

A book made of secrets,

from the bottom of the lake,

the shattered home life,

and the top of the Catskills.

 

It was given to me as a gift.

Brought down from the sky by a bird

that gracefully flew overhead,

and delivered my salvation.

 

Book of sadness, happiness, and everything that lives

on this side of the sun.

It knows me well,

and calls to me,

wanting to know how I am.

Ever the counselor.

 

I tell it my secrets,

strike it with my pen as if it were a shovel,

and water it with tears.

Just like the flowers in my yard,

it loves the rain.

 

The book does not live in one place.

If anyone found it,

they would know it all.

How the light shines through my window or,

how the rain feels against my skin and,

how it hurts to be so alone.

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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