A Collection of Words

Last Page

I've been sitting here for months,
Just writing in this book,
Revealing my heart and soul,
My mind tainting the pages.

Nothing here is perfect,
And good things are just flukes,
So what's the point of existing,
When everything has a flaw.

I've read through these pages,
On many occasions,
Looking for flaws and mistakes,
Figuring out how to fix them.

I came across a mistake once,
It didn't seem too severe,
I allowed it to stay,
Then it stabbed through my other words.

Things have been crossed out,
But they will always still remain,
They'll always be there to remember,
Always be a part of my mind.

Sometimes I write my darkest thoughts,
Then rip out the page to throw it away,
Some things aren't meant to be seen,
Everyone has their deepest secrets.

Maybe the pages have scattered around,
They may see them and think me absurd,
But no one will know my whole mind,
So who are they to judge?

And now I'm sitting here,
Writing on the last page,
The pen never ending,
But the page becoming full.

I used it too much,
I took comfort in my art,
But I became too attached,
I allowed my art to die.

I was bound to run out of pages,
This book was bound to suffocate,
And now the fire has burnt out,
Along with everything else.

My heart is filled with ink,
And it takes it's last breath.
Drowning in black liquid,
Becoming forever still.