I do not read books.
I kill them. Stab my knife into the pages with
A savage joy. Twist until the words jumble
and a stream Of ink rushes down onto the table
The life's blood of a book.
I let it slide through my fingers, feel
Strange joy as the book's soul
Joins with mine. A horrible deed done
I erase the evidence, place the book back on the shelf
Wipe my hands of the ink, the stray words
Clinging to my shirt.
And walk away
Simply a passerby.
- Written by: Claire Glover
My poem may be published online as long as the author is given credit and a link is included to: