I am an open book, yet not a long one.
However, I seem to not be easily read.

I am not tucked into a nook or cranny, but know some
Sticky pages should be pried to see inside my head.

At times, I feel like a journal of dreams,
Scrawled into and left beside a bed.

My cover, it alternates, older and sewn with intricate seams.
My author is only He who bled.

Do I have a title?
No, yet I was named with a purpose.

It would be unfortunate to find me an eyeful,
And stop when you have yet to scratch the surface.

I can only pray for my pages to add
Substantially to my true story.

To see experiences passed down to younger ages, I would be glad,
To share true wisdom before I am in glory.

I am an open book, but certainly not a long one
I want to share love any way possible and be blessing

Either a single work or in volumes, how ever it is done
It should be one that only adds to life, never lessening.