No pain, no sorrow.
No joy, laughter or tears.
No thoughts of tomorrow
Or my irrational fears.
"Bum-bum, bum-bum."
My black book thumps
As if it had a heart,
But inside are only little lumps
Of a heart that was ripped apart.
Fire flickers at the edge,
Scorching the flesh as it steams.
It's as if it's on a narrow ledge,
Falling and unable to scream.
The fire grows to a fury,
And the flesh turns to ash.
The pieces I cannot even bury
Disappear on the wind in a flash.
My little black book holds one, only one
Secret between its dark covers.
The damage to me cannot be undone
Even if my self-loathing is discovered.
**So, I thought I would post this. I am on a site called Allpoetry as well, and I was the last entry in a contest about writing about my personal black book (which for those that don't know, a black book is a collection of secrets which you don't want anyone else to ever find out). I was really quite surprised that I won the contest. I thought I would share it here and find out what you all thought as well.**
YOU ARE READING
Peeking Through the Window
PoetryA book filled with poetry I've written and am writing. I'm considering trying to get published, but I don't think I'm really good enough. Please feel free, by the way, to leave comments. I enjoy knowing what people think, as long as they are not r...
