Prose, poetry, fiction, and rambles from people with a bit too much time on their hands.

Bookworm

You’d often sit in the living room chair
until the early morning.
Reading about things in which
I had lost faith years ago.

Sad and confused,
I would come talk to you.
You cared so much,
worried so much. I hardly understood.

Now, I’m around these people
I don’t even know.
And in the darkest night of my life
I forgot about you, I was entirely empty.

I think I understand.
I want to break down and plea.
Mom, I’ve been bad
and I want to come home.

But I won’t because,
well, you would smile and know
that you are right about everything.
And you know I can’t stand that at all.

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One Comment on “Bookworm”

  1. ocksblog says:

    nice poem, well put together with nothing jarring


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