The ragged edges of a broken thought,
Recklessly torn away from the book.
The black scribbles are ripped down the middle,
Then made illegible in the tightly clenched fist.
The words that tell of days past,
Ones that have all washed together, a blur, a smudge,
Memories that the mind begs to forget.
Peel the words, strip them out of existence.
The force breaks the binding of the little, tattered book,
Causing the spine to crack more than it already has.
Years of use have worn down the fragile covers,
And the brittle pages fall easily apart.
The past crumbles down in tiny chunks,
Sending its emotions, moments, all over the floor,
Swept up by the wind as it blows through the room,
And tossed aside, no one chasing after them.
You let the words fall, let the memories be destroyed,
Filled with a feeling of power, and exponential amount of joy.
Thinking you’re finally free, free of the heartache,
The times which haunted your mind, never leaving you alone.
Rest has finally come, relief from the terror of the past.
But the air doesn’t feel fresher, your mind unchained.
Because those moments stay with you, relentlessly following,
And torn pages cannot tear them away.