Words they dance on paper, as my body loses strength.
My mind it races onwards, as my soul feels it may fade.
This pen keeps on writing, as my heart forgets to beat.
Every time I open up, another piece of me is ripped from my story.
My binding is bent and worn, with every page torn.
Once I was a fantasy, a story they could not wait to see.
As they read right through me, skimming every page-
the words for volume two, slowly came to view.
Drafts are left unfinished, the story more diminished.
Lonely ink spots, point out the unraveling plots.
I can write all on my own but I wanted to collaborate,
each new character felt like a twist of fate.
I studied every line, every single quote.
Looking for deeper meaning, but in the end it's all they wrote.
No after word, no biography-
not a single explanation as to why they never chose me.
Here's my dedication, I should always put myself first.
I am the author and the story, never unversed.
As long as my words are still written, this light inside could never be fully hidden.
Bring me home, if you want to write in permanent ink, if you won't leave me to myself.
Those that cannot understand and truly love the novel I am, then please I ask all you borrowers, just leave me on the shelf.
