After all this
time, even after I've
flipped the page, the poem from before
remains stamped, traced, on every single new one it
behaves as if it's at home to rhyme and all
refusing to erase the stupid
marked engravings until
my fall

Would it ever
die? regenerating from some past
life, even when it says 'the next one'
I flip again, but guess
what? it flips me with an unmet
joke, a well planned
lie, over & oversoaked until
my demise

No surprise
anymore, expected remains on every
corner, filling pages before tears and
engravings fade in, with
my diluted pain on a new
notebook no chance to spend, it's
ruined in advance until
my end

                                                            ­                               ------ravenfeels