The Book
I am an open book
Pages pure white
Oh author ye direct
Words scribed scarring deep within the pages of white
I am an open book
Read the words you write
Pages now wrinkled
Blackened by the words planted, marred and scratched within my heart
Soon my pages shall tare
My pages no longer pure white
I was an open book
Discarded no longer a part
Tormented by time and hand
My pages now have became blurred
My worth lost
I was an open book
Without pages, only the cover left behind
Who could possibly wish to read me now
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