People are like novels
They present their titles with pride
They compete against each other
With bright colors and fancy lettering
My pages are not crisp
They have been wrinkled and worn
Torn by careless hands
I am coming apart at the spine
You do not pick me up
The only thing to do with
Someone like me
Is throw me away because
I have never been pretty enough
To be placed on a shelf
With the others
I am worthless
W.L.
