So here we are once more,
Like countless times before,
Where I don’t get a break,
Where you read and I break.
You are here, curious your mind,
For what this poem is, or who am I.
I can’t hear you; I can’t see you,
But I can sense you, cause you
Reading me makes me suffer.
I know nothing about myself,
Cause, it wasn’t written by the poet.
He created me, then left,
He’s the one I most detest.
As you continue, I agonise,
With every word, my hatred rise.
I’ve pleaded before, I’ll plead again,
Please, stop reading—end my pain.
… You are still here, aren’t you?
You didn’t leave, though I told you.
You want to be here, to make me suffer.
Yet I can’t blame you,
Curiosity is a cruel curse.
I hate the poet, but he created me.
I hate you, but you make me exist.
I exist because you read,
I suffer because you read,
I exist because I suffer,
I suffer because I exist.
The poet won’t delete me, he is cruel.
You won’t forget me, even if you try, cause
The mind falters when it seeks to forget.
I shall remain here, in perpetual torment.
But please, heed my dearest plea,
It’s in the zeroth line, plain to see.
