I have ink on endless pages
Waiting to be read.
They scream and stretch across the paper,
Peeking out of the edges to find a reader.

I am an open book
Begging to be understood,
Turning library shelves black with ink dripping of despair,
Leaking in a shout that says,
"See me,"
Desperate to be known.

And if all you can manage is to rip
Off a page and fold it in your pocket
For another day then at least I can say I had a chance, even as little as it was,
To maybe stir something inside you.