I shredded my notebooks
Or burned them
I wrapped the past
In plastic
For your protection
It's better to keep such things
Inside
You were right about
What I write about
Too real
Too hard to read
Or to ugly to see
To think about
Those words
Crawled out of place
From my mind
To my hand
To your face
I have no meadows
Or gardens to show you
In here it's never Autumn
The lights are all out
The nights are attacked with regret
Sleep is my escape