The touch of comfort and page-turning smile.
I perfected this for you, my written style.
I hope you like it.
No one else ever did.
My book was left open, and yet, nothing since.
All my words true, as real as my ink.
Printed on fresh paper I am sat left to think.
I grow tired, of waiting for your read.
Sometimes I feel I've only written at your please.
Your fingertips touch my withered page.
Cold as ice but bright as day.
A cover once craving your touch, is a dusty shelf-piece that could never wish as such.
You could always read me, I know that much is true.
You say you will always need me, I read the words, love you.
But now on this shelf I hide in this nook.
I hear your cries.
But how could I feel sorry, after all, I'm just a book.
YOU ARE READING
Pitiful
Poesía"Never trust a scream, it lies with its fear, it's scared of the truth, it's scared for you to hear." A collection of poems made about me and to be read by you. Please enjoy. ⚠️Content warning⚠️: May contain triggering content.
