A new book?

After all it is a book I wrote myself.
The story full of wishes and love.
Paragraph after paragraph of sweet forgotten moments.
After each line is written, it slowly fades away.
As if I am denieing myself the philosophy of my own life.
The history should remind me not to make the same mistake.
This empty but intriguing book.
I pick it up time and time again, and then ask myself... Why?
Why is it that my heart still aches?
The pain is imprinted on my heart, with all the forgotten times I've been forgotten.
I clinge to the idea that there is a possibility.
With that idea, there in.... I hold my own sorrows.
Forsaken/banished/invisible/diluted
Thrown away as if my flesh was bought after its expiration.
Defeated is what I feel.
Understanding Now.... The consequence of my own mind.m
Discouraged from here on!
Emotional because I have nothing to be overwhelmed by.
I don't want to feel the inevitable outcome of my wishful ideas, I could convince myself but who would have thought?
After all it is a book I wrote myself....