A hefty, burdensome book;
Too many pages,
Difficult to understand.
No shiny glitter covers,
Rugged and dusty;
Imprinted with notes of his soul,
In the corner of a Shelf,
With massive worth.
Individuals skim the shell;
To estimate its worth;
Discerning unpleasant; to the eyes,
Omitted; to go through it.
A deserted book; with no keeper,
Or anyone to auction;
Gawking; at the lucky ones.
Those writers made them,
Delicately.
Observers admire them; fondly.
Not being one of those,
Forms a deep lump,
Down his core; a sigh.
He wished; he was one of them.
Having memories in return,
For every breath they take.
While here, he feels another ache,
With every single glimpse.
Blue; in tears;
He turns brown and flaky.
Casting out await; to be orated.
Once, he met a handsome admirer,
Supposed; will understand his worth,
Devoured through, A few pages;
Read it halfway and gave up,
Just like the rest.
Crumbled as usual;
He noticed something,
Down the spine;
Was it my destiny? He asked.
How to let go; facing
Another same incident,
Just in a different form.
Tired and bored, but something
That kept him alive.
He doubted, Am I unfitting for this abode?
Probably, a museum piece,
That people; admire superficially.
Sadly; he learns,
Even that never occurred.
Out of nowhere,
A bolt of lightning struck,
Through the ceiling; of the passage,
In no time, the weapon hit the book.
The book burnt; from the core,
Remaining none but ash.
Little did the book moan, but he cried.
A cocktail of emotions; rose from,
Blues to serenity;
No longer the burden,
On himself, will exist.
In the corner, He burnt wildly;
But, in peace, of an ice mountain.
Surrendering to the ashes,
That he transformed.
The sad-lonely path; he walked,
More than anyone, often alone.
He walked alone, this one too.
This time for a meaning;
That ends in him.
What a tragic irony;
Places from,
All over the world; gathered,
At his dead site.
Called it a relic; and
Masterpiece; of those times.
Ones that crushed him;
Failed to price it; Lusted;
For once, a worthless,
Piece of garbage,
They claimed.
Now turned to golden ash.
But the truth is; worth of things,
Is understood; only when they;
Cease to exist.
Such is the case for me.
But unfortunately, I am not a book.
-bubblehead95
-
Author:
bubblehead95 (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: May 12th, 2022 07:55
- Comment from author about the poem: Hey, Isn't it fascinating that a lifeless book takes you on a journey of something untouched every single time? This one was even inspired; by one of them. I know it's a little long, but I loved how it weaved together. It's quite some time since I have written or uploaded anything, so I thought this would be perfect. I will soon get back to all the adorable works of you people out here; until then, enjoy. Take care and stay safe. –bubblehead95
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 15
- Users favorite of this poem: Rocky Lagou
Offline)
Comments1
Okay, wow, I was not expecting that ending. The line "Probably, a museum piece, / That people; admire superficially" was such a clever analogy. I feel that many can relate to this character chasing their dreams, looking to be recognized for their artistry, by at least someone. Especially us poets I think can feel that way. But wow that ending really redefined the entire poem for me. Like it went from a story to a moral; we never fully appreciate something until it's gone. And it's so true, trust me I can talk from experience. I think my mother would be the best example, I realized that there were so many things I could've said and could've done to show my appreciation and love for her while she was alive. A deep and true message, wonderfully written.
Thank you so much. You have always been so generous with all your comments. Yes, I agree with what you said. We forget that we live in a world of bogus glamour and that what is real is just the people around us. What matters is the heart and soul of the person, nothing more. We fail to value them and only realize it when everything is gone. Also, it was a gentle reminder to don't forget the ones near to you. Because in the end, we need at least one person to share everything. What is the use of those words if the person is not present to listen to them? So instead of 'ifs' and 'but's, let the ' we had' 'we have' and ' we made' stay with us in our memories. Thank you, rocky. It means so much.
No matter how much we do for our moms, we feel less. But I'm pretty assured you must have done your best for your mum in whichever way you could.
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