Book Of Memories

A Poem by Looki

“The worst memories stick with us, while the nice ones always seem to slip through our fingers.”

His wrinkled fingers gripping tight around the book,
book keeping his innocence and younger years.
The book was pale and sharp,
like the classy men of his childhood.
He opened the book, starting at the point of his childish wonders,
which were thrown into the wind as the years hurried;

Sitting on his countrified bed, the child looked through the pair in front of him,
a classy pair for sure,
with the pain in their eyes as they listened to their son.
He was a mistake,
useless
wrong,
words he didn't even know the meaning of slipped out of his mouth like syrup,
rotten one.

The wrinkled face shook
quietly
unnoticed by the silence in the room;

Years passing,
and so his childhood.
Now he is a dirty teenager working for the pleasure of the lady,
after the man went down.
The man said
"I cannot believe this child, he is not ours."
But the woman argued
"The child is yours, brother! It is your fault he was born like this.",
and so the screaming continued until one disappeared into the smoke.

The hands shook,
as the book dug into the skin,
reviving many painful memories.

As an adult,
his years thrown down the drain,
he looked for knowledge to trade.
He met a woman,
mild and sweet,
gained his knowledge
and was freed.

Two silver drops fell down and stained the book as it closed,
the memories joining together as the hand placed it back where it belongs.

In the dark corner now it rests,
the Book Of Memories