My Book

With all my being I hate,
everything that I create.
It's hard for me to concentrate,
on this thing that seems to be my fate.

An empty space right next to me,
where you can cuddle up and be.
And every time I try to flee,
I stop, look back, and cry at what I see.

The drugs that numb,
they make me dumb.
I fear the things that I've become.
Corrosive substance and mindless hum.

And when I begin to cry,
I wish that you would let me die.
Let me spread my wings and fly.
Let me wander off into the sky.

I know that you will never look,
inside this thing they call my book.
When I fell down and my mind shook,
I called you names and pulled the hook.

I'm not what you made.
These things make up my secret glade,
and when I watch you from the shade,
all those things begin to fade.

Leave me alone,
my peace lives within me...


"Perhaps I know why it is man alone who laughs: He alone suffers so deeply that he had to invent laughter."  - Friedrich Nietzsche