It is November, I am home, I am done working for the year and I am writing a book. It’s not a story, not a novel, not poetry, not an epic poem, even though I wish it was. I don’t know anyone who would want to read an epic poem, I would, but I do not have the time nor the patience to. I hardly have time for anything, I’m always too busy to be busy, with anything. The rest of the world has no time for an epic poem, not even high school kids do these days, the world is busy, it’s busy times, busy roads, busy buildings, busy people, the children are busy, the unborn babies are busy and most importantly, I am busy, so busy. I’ve noticed how good and important saying the words ‘I am busy’ can make you feel, we’ve all taken pride in being busy. So this is…not an epic poem. The book that nobody reads, how liberating are those words, a writers worst fear is the reader, I fear the reader, I fear the thoughts of the reader. Here this is, the book, no one is reading it, I am writing it, I feel free, not held and hopefully not unhinged. There is no trouble there. It’s just a book, no title, no heavy label. Liberated . I am just a human being, breathing, not a girl, not a boy.
I lied to myself, this is poetry.
YOU ARE READING
THE BOOK THAT NOBODY READS
Poetry[POETRY] I think a lot, as the rest of the world does. Sometimes my thoughts do make sense, but most of the time they are too much for me to make any sense. When I can, I write what's in my mind and what plaques my imagination. I write what I see, I...
