sometimesihatemycat

I’ll never feel guilty when buying a book
Unopened it’s still worth the change
I’d pay for the prospect of having a look
At ideas that might rearrange

They say that a good book should tear you apart
And leave you with shreds of yourself
Or perhaps it should reach in and grab at your guts
Take some meat of you with it when shelved

I have been tempted quite into existence
I have been stripped down to barely a core
I have been remade to be butchered again
With each binding I’m begging for more

When I’m in it I want to be bleeding
No hope but in turning the page
To find my own death in the words I am reading
I’ll always be willing to pay

-a.r.

Painting: Muddy, bloody red…Pain by Howard Hodgkin

~ by April on January 23, 2015.

Posted in Death, Humanity, Poetry, Whimsy, Writing
Tags: Anatta, Anicca, Books, Cioran, Death, Dissatsifaction, Dukkha, Ideas, No-self, Philosophy, poetry, Reading, Self, Suffering