None of what you hear...

This is my story, this is my song. Every word backwards, every part wrong.

I wish you could hear it, I wish you could see, wish you would read this, story of me.

Sad and so jumbled, a typical mess. A confusing tale where sense is at rest.

It never begins, its always just there. The pages lack numbers, my conscious lacks care.

Hurt and numb a chapter in one, yet each story separate, each without sun.

A small bit of light, shines through a break, in clouds or in pages, I don't seem to take.

A poet of puzzle, a question in face, to look you'd not know the sadness in place.

So what makes one happy, what makes one spark? Can you illuminate something born in the dark?

A dog hears a whistle, you hear my cry. A paper feels my soul and you didn't try.

A ruled out reading of boredom and woes, to follow the pages,
One reaps what they sew.

A hard pill to swallow, the water so cold. A tepid hope love, the last page may hold.

Let Go of the edit, let go of the hope. Forget all the proofing and read this to cope.

Let each page warm you from fingers to heart, turn pages with tingles and pray not to part.

Judge not and listen to words such a plea, ingest what you're reading, digest part of me.

Of love, of life, of death we all write, a story inside each, to warm bitter night.

A thousand and one attempts at  a life, each page a memory, each word a strife.

Tear out  a small piece and carry it near. Or put down the book and see me right here