open book

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.