You stopped reading my story,
But I wrote that book for you.
You told me that you adored my prose,
And my own secret language, too.
I edited and scribbled
And erased what didn’t matter.
I wanted to present a masterpiece,
So, I made the binding fatter.
I told you far too much,
Far more than you deserved,
And you make it so very hard for me
To keep my privacy preserved.
“I have so much to tell you,”
I shout with my very being.
But I’m unsure if you’re worth
The love I think I might be seeing.
Perhaps you’ll pick up my book again,
In another month or 12.
But I won’t sit here waiting
To be pulled from atop your shelf.
You won’t have the chance,
To blow the dust off my pages,
By that time, I’ll be a sequel,
In another life, or other stages.
“Don’t judge a book by its cover,”
We’re told from the beginning.
But I saw you in draft form,
And I know what sins you’re sinning.
Perhaps our series can only be
Predicted by a fortune teller,
But I know that in my darkest parts,
It has potential – as a best-seller.
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