There’s an overwhelming sense
That I’m just a Library book that’s long overdue;
That I’m an old book and my spine just needs more glue
The words I have scrawled into the pages of who I am are starting to come loose
I’m just a book you picked up because the cover looked good.
Don’t judge a book by it’s cover--
The inside may be filled with pain,
Each word painting new scars into who you are.
Put me down before it’s too late,
Turn me back in to the Library before I have the chance to hurt you
I’m a storm of ink spattered with barbs of desperation
barely contained within the faded musty pages
Of past hurts.