Freedom (My 23_March Post)

Burn me,
Burn everything I own,
Burn away my writings,
every paper,
Inked or blank,
I know it will burn bright.
Burn my name,

A dead song

What is wrong with you ?  with me?
when I saw you at first
I thought you are a song
easy to grasp & remember

but you weren’t, I know
for every time I crammed,
wrote you on my walls
you faded, into a cacophony

As others found harmony
I cried and crammed
I mad searched you
every page every line

But your words were foreign
of people long gone, dead
They left you, a cipher
a proof that dead can kill

I was a God of my world
so perfect, so aloof
Then I found you
like a crack on a glass statue
I saw you grow, slowly
as I shattered.

Here I am, a helpless god 
gathering up my pieces
singing you and asking myself
What is wrong with me? with you?