I identify with a book on the wooden shelf collecting dust
In an unoccupied study with immaculate furniture
No dog ears, coffee stains or marks
No one has ever read it
Or dared to browse through the pages
They walk past it

It's content is filled with haphazard revelations of the self
With splatterings of philosophy and *******
The more you read
It gets darker
An absence of transparency
An enigma grows
No one will ever know
It remains closed

Like a deceptacon
Visually appealing from afar but as they walk towards it something repels them

Though heartbreaking
A fine read it is
No ending written
The author is still evolving
Faultering and changing the conclusion as she treads the treacherous terrain of life.