I Am An Interesting Book

I am an interesting book.
My jacket is destroyed
my cover is ragged,
My spine arched, from being bent
back the wrong way.
Pages worn, letters faded,
I am an interesting book.

There are a few book marks
placed with love and trust amongst my pages.
Every one of these bookmarks
have been embraced by myself,
and they are all beautiful.

Not even my authors know what wonders I behold.
Most of the words I contain
are much to complicated
for people to apprehend,
And as opposed to talking to my dear friend
the dictionary,
They choose to give up and set me
back up on the shelf with the rest.

I am the only copy of me ever made
So I am an interesting book
that cannot be bought.

I have been dropped in a puddle
and left out in the rain.
I have been sitting on my shelf for awhile,
dusty and neglected.
I ache to be thoroughly read.

Someday...someone will read me
all the way through.
They will see how completely wonderful
I truly am,
and they will express it
so joyously.

They will bring out my elite portions.
Other people will start to notice me
and they will long to read
my tattered pages.
Maybe someone will understand me,
maybe not.

By this time I could possibly be
locked up and untouchable,
and their desire will be unbearable,
maybe.

But for now,
I am merely and interesting book.

Responses

3 comments so far.

1. nerak gorodvin says:

   i love this poem..well expressed

2. Kelly Hernandez says:

   I loved this poem, I love the expression used for this one.

3. 4 SUGAR BEAR says:

   I like your way of thinking. Sounds unique, abit like mine.... Do you ever make up your own words, like taking two words and combining them??? I love it, my friend started journaling the many unique words I would come out with... I think I stumbled upon them by dyslexic chance....
   ~PEACE OUT