Poetry - The Book

Lying in bed turning the pages of the book,

That book, the story of my life,

How many pages has this monster already written?

I certainly can't tell,

I look at the pages as they write themselves,

The words are all blurred,

That damned fog in my head,

The lead weighing down my limbs,

The open sores of my soul,

Out of which my strength runs,

Forever gone?

Let's turn back the pages,

I need to remember,

But surely this is fiction,

You can't believe everything that you read,

Who is the person in this story?

What boundless energy, what resolve, what strength, what joy,

Slim and fit, the smile, the eyes that sparkle,

It can't be me,

The monster rules now,

The past is soon forgotten,

The mirror sneers at me,

Fat, grumpy, sad, exhausted, mean, hopeless,

Who would want that as a lover, a father, a brother, a son or a friend?

Flicking forward to where the words continue to appear,

They cannot be stopped,

How many blank pages are there left,

The thickness is elusive,

Can this monster be beaten?

Can I poison it with this poison?

Three times a day, every other day, every day,

If so, what then,

Who is waiting at the other end?

A shell or a man,

I suppose it is up to me,

Get up you Norseman,

One foot in front of the other,

The ending must be, They lived happily ever after,

Valhalla will have to wait, I have a book to write!