People are like books,
And unfortunate for me
I am the dusty book on the
Corner of the shelf.
I sit with my soft leather binding
Waiting to be picked up and read.
I'm the Words unheard, The
Stories unsaid...
But no one picks me up.
For I am seemingly too much work,
A book that's too thick,
The writing is too small,
The pictures are nonexistent,
And the wordings too long.
They don't even open me,
Just glance at my blank cover and then
Just toss me back where they found
Me before, simply dying to be opened again.