It was dark and dreary. The poorly lit room stank of mold and mildew as ill kept books lay rotting in a pile. Weary of rats and spiders, you set to work, salvaging what you could, which tended to be nothing. Book after rotting book thrown into a pile, the smell of decay growing in the air. Finally, at the bottom of the stack, you discover a book bound in soft red velvet locked with a golden chain. Intrigued, you hid the book beneath your shirt, so The Others would not know of your precious treasure. The book's name: Future.
Your secret you may longer keep, it was future for the taking, but light may nar reach your place with confidence dividing. Returning to what you once knew is a ruin you can't face, staring at you through unclear eyes, the future you are bound to lose, but it is not a good thing to think that way now.
The Others-- they are lifeless faces, blank expressions interacting like clockwork and just the same every day. They needlessly stare at your labeled stupidity, a genius in society, lacerating you from the rest of society. There is an encompassing "alone" around your being, which you appreciate like perfume on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Yes, these are the days where you may escape for a few hours from pointed fingers and gawky gazes.
Another Tuesday on its way out, you brush the dust from your jeans and determine that they cannot see the book that you tucked away so carefully. How ancient is this book, to be buried beneath centuries of dilapidated covers? Yet, strangely, it did not suffer the same fate. Perhaps the future is like you are: something that will not change to conform to its surroundings.
I know this isn't a poem but I am trying to write a book and I was hoping if someone would give me their opinion on how it is turning out or give constructive criticism. There will be more numbered sections later. Thanks!!!