Every time someone reads me, I get more torn
I really like how you think, can we converse more with you?
Can we pick your brain?
Can we talk to you so that we know what you know so that we can tell others?
You have impressed us. Now, for free, talk to us. Give your time to us.
We want to destroy you by taking away what you know and Never giving you what you don't.
I have an itch. God. Please. I know you blessed me with a tongue which speaks silver. People find my voice strong, familiar and warm. They say I sound like a man. And I love that. Then they ask me to speak more. I speak a lot. The difference between more and lot gets attuned. I attend to everyone who praises me. I try to please those who don't. I smile at the mirrors. So they smile back. In the Invisiblity of my books, I don't know why but I travelled so many places and met so many Characters, good and bad. But God, why didn't I learn from them? Why do I feel used? I feel like I give, give and give. And there's just a take take and take.
I feel drained. I feel like I am that rug, washed again and again and then dried in the sun. So it fades and looks old, but provides the same. I feel like my knowledge attracts but doesn't convert. People come to pick pieces of my brains and pie and I have nothing left. It's like I am living for someone else. For you. Not for me. My body has been like milk. My eyes are strained. I have been leeched.
A sweeping cascade of body, mind and soul,
Regardless of the fortunes of knowledge, there lies the ultimate misery. No value, nothing. I am like that open book in the library, tattered but read by everyone. And kept my no one. Every time someone reads me, I get more torn.
Still, every morning as I do what the ordinary do, I think I am worthless and I am not getting used. Rather I am getting used to living. To live is to be stolen of your peace, of being picked. Of being abominable. Abandoned. My quaff is my misery and they mix like blood and wine, same colour, different cusps.
