The Final Page

All the kids at school? They say writing poetry must be easy; after all, so many words rhyme with ‘love you’. If they, with fists covered in your blood, only knew. An art of letting yourself flow into the page, Of giving in to the forces that define human nature. That, at its finest, is writing. Who really cares about your writing? Would they notice if you never showed up at school? No. It’s only a human’s nature To forget anything unimportant, like you. Maybe you should just turn the page And descend into your story you never knew. Nonsense. Don’t tell me you never knew Of the many anonymous writing Their broken souls onto the final page Of the old history textbook they stole from school Little postscripts of life left for you A product of nature. Nature Mocks the men who knew About you Sitting alone in the attic, writing About the woes of school Tear and bloodstains on every page. The book’s final page Grown into nature Far away from the school Where the first pages flew, they knew All their writing Inspired you. It’s you, This blown-away page, A scorned piece of writing Tossed around like trash by nature. If she knew What happens at school. Writing is what kept you in school Wither away, you, against your own nature Maybe you should just turn the page and descend into your story you never knew.