Book of Me

The book of me has already been penned
The story is known including the end
Can’t change it now, it is written in ink
It’s almost finished, I am on the brink

Beautiful art never graced the pages
A life composed of nothing but cages
A slave to myself and no one’s master
The book’s last word can’t come any faster

Was not a Comedy, my life I mean
Not enough laughter to make it so seem
Nor was it an Epic that told a grand tale
Insignificant man with only betrayal

Could have been Romance, but not meant to be
Deceit was the story, victim was me
A Lesson book maybe, but what I was taught
Is too late to use so I learned it for naught

All things considered, a Tragedy was told
Wasted potential and heart now too cold
There’s no happy ending and no second chance
You can tell by the cover with only a glance

My cover is sadness the binding now torn
I’ve fallen apart and my edges are worn
The ink on the pages has run from the tears
Of life unfulfilled after so many years

So the story is known need only be read
Though no one wants their curiosity fed
The book will now rot alone on a shelf
Or burn in a fire set by myself

*written/posted in 2012, when I first attempted writing…that’s my excuse

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