This Book of Mine

This book of mine is so old and worn

That most of its pages are faded and torn

The writing is smudged; you can’t make out the lines

If this book was a trellis it’d be covered in vines

Sitting upon a shelf covered in dust

Reluctant to turn back the cover, however we must

Read through the chapters that we now call our past

And try to understand how the years went by so fast

I don’t want to forget you; I just want to move on

Write yourself into my story and the memory will never be gone

You say you’ve tried to reason and that you’ve been ignored

You see me standing there doing nothing but continually slamming the door

It hurts to watch you struggle when oblivion is your only foe

Ignorance overwhelms you, you’re ability to see clearly seems so low

You want the world to love you, to take you as you are

But you respect no one; you are the most hypocritical by far

If books are for actors you’ve played your part well

But it’s time to switch scripts, on these days we shall not dwell

Blood is thicker than anything I know

For family, there is no distance I wouldn’t willingly go

Until you realize that yourself and embrace the same philosophy

A sequel to our story could simply never be

So you can play this role of victim, whimpering “poor me, poor me”

Or you can man up and mature, make your way to cleaning up the debris

You constantly place the blame on everyone else

You can never do wrong; the problem could never be yourself

The book you are writing is full of selfish conceit

Work on fixing yourself before you worry about me

This chapter has been finished; I’m already starting the next

I’ll write many more as you stand there vexed

Your life is yours and mine is mine

If you’re interested in what that means, read between the lines