i've been flipped through
used for my content,
poorly kept
and left to be picked up
read...
and dropped by the next
what's my story?
where's the story in my heart?
how do i know
that anyone has ever understood
me front to back?
why has no one considered,
treasuring my leafs
protecting my spine
reading me again?
...why has my story
been only momentarily piquing...
only once explored?
where's the story in my heart
and do my pages
reflect my depth?
does my memoir
bespeak my soul
and speak a piece...
my peace?
i never wanted to be
a library's keep...
openly shelved
and passed over...
i never wanted to be
borrowed and returned...
i wanted to be discovered
and cherished,
my beholder
afraid to share me,
but willing to recount my
imprinted confessions
with far off eyes
sparkling...
remembering the adventures
of my tale
instead,
i've been left
bare to the exposure of air
aging my words
turning my narrative faded
and shriveled
...but my story was in my heart
plainly penned
to be read
to be loved
to be traversed
with open mind and heart
so,
no matter if my cover is compromised
if my title is smudged
if my bind is broken
and the gild is gone
if i'm never read again
and no one ever remembers my voice
...my story was still written
my story is still here.
