You don’t want to look into that book.
No, don’t open it please.
It’s darker than you’ll ever know.
Every piece of my heart in shreds are bookmarked there.
Every hurt never forgotten;
a turn of the page would push you
into that gloomy world where I was left.
I warn you, it pictures a dead garden.
Full of withered roses and lofty dreams dragged down
by spears of words forged in disdain.
The lines of every word are like a braille
that even the blind can read by just a touch.
Your brows are arched with surprise?
It’s all your doing.
You did this to me. To us.
Everyday I’ve sat to write;
the pages bled and my tears dried the ink of my pen.
It’s a book of worry.
A manuscript of pain.
Forever to be remembered.
©Whyte Queen
Whyte Queen 