The Book

On page two-hundred and fifteen
I had finally had enough
I tore out the page
And cast it away
I did not want to read further
I did not want to know how it would end
I simply wanted to end it
From then on ‘til eternity

I glanced at the previous pages
Ripped out the few that were entertaining
Page twenty-three was my absolute favorite
But by page ninety-eight
The book had become an obvious work of imperfection

Some of the struggle was indeed interesting
But the struggle become too complicated
Too difficult
Uncomprehendible

The next day I found the old book
Here and there
Pages torn out
I took the thing and slammed it into the wall
The cover fell off

I burned the loose paper
In my backyard
I watched the pages
Turn to ashes
And slowly drift into the air

My only wish
Would have been this:
If I could have gotten rid of the book entirely
If I could destroy the ashes completely
No memory would cease to exist
And I would be happy