Paperback

Inside this room I’m sitting here

reflecting on myself.

The only tattered, lonely book

that’s lying on a shelf.

The one you never came to hold,

and so, you overlooked.

The one you never came to read,

and so, I never hooked.

The one that never came to be

a prize or idolized.

The one that still contains its secrets

and all of its lies.

But now you see the trouble is

that all the words are gone.

I’m nothing but a flightless bird,

a useless paper swan.

So, if there’s nothing left within

this book for you to read,

and no more magic or more passion

left for it to bleed.

Then what’s a tattered book to do

when all it has is doubt,

and sits upon a lonely shelf

its pages all torn out?