The Book


Sometimes I just lay on my bed
Thoughts and memories swarming in my head.
I try to remember the good times I've had
But they somehow slip away, always making me mad.

So I started writing my memories
in a book for safekeeping.
Now I didn't feel so empty
But it made me start weeping.

Somehow the book was making me gloomy.
The book was making me way more moody.
The book was supposed to help me replay;
All it did was shorten my day.

I had more bad than good in that book.
I had to get rid of it, as fast as I could.
But I didn't want those memories to just disappear.
My life was just starting to become more clear.

Maybe I was never meant to remember at all.
Remembering would probably bring my downfall.

Angry, I proceeded to start a fire,
Adding more wood, the flames getting higher.
I threw in the book and left it to rot,
To continue to live with mindless thoughts.

I stared at the fire, my rage contained.
I watched as my memories dispelled once again.
I bid all my memories a last farewell
Will I be happy? Only time will tell.


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