useless

Here I sit across from my collection of Manuscripts
Each one will tell you a story about myself, and another
Each line, Each carefully chosen word, so perfect
I don’t even have to try and I know it
Each word, each sentence, so perfect
So perfect it makes me sick.

How is it that I am so blessed?
And yet, how is it that I am so cursed?
Knowledge destroyed my hope.
An yet, hope wasn’t a part of my life, ever.
It just is, as it was, as I always will be.

Those words haunted me, but never again.
Hate dwelled inside my heart.
Good judgment clouded my Consciousness
These are not tattoos...
These words are not etched in stone.

I tossed those manuscripts into the fire.
I tossed myself into the fire.
And laughed, because I felt blank.
I felt clean, reborn into nothing.
The very void I have come to love so very much.

Then I got out a new journal, one blank and pure.
I placed this book upon my shelf, and never put another word in.
At last I was free from my curse.