Wednesday, September 12, 2007
A bottle of wine, uncorked, undisturbed,
A story waiting to be told, unfold, undiscovered,
The writer stays at a halt, motionless,
He sense her nearing, his pulse momentarily jumps,
What’s that he feel again? Movement
And he hates it, he hates changes, he hates drastic changes
He pummels into the table he leaned onto,
Tearing the pages that made up the beautiful book,
It looked better that way, no more perfect, flawed like he is
There is no more pretending, the cover torn right thru the middle
He scribbles incoherently, feverish, his mind scattered,
Feelings distorted, visions disrupted, the ideas he had lost,
She came silently, holding up the book under his glaring eyes,
‘You chose the wrong way’, she speaks softly,
The whimpers and cries came, he sense the pain seeping,
She shook her head and left just as she has come,
He shook more fervently, deep inside the heartache sinks
The cries became deep howls as cuts begin to ruin his masterpiece,
Cuts resulting from his bare hands, the scratches he made,
He stops and turns to see, the same book now ruined,
He smiles, the story is now complete, he had rid of her.
its just me.
2:00 PM
