What am I? Am I merely a dusty book on the shelf, once of interest but now forgotten? My pages crisp, yellowed with age. The words held between my bounds left unseen, the messages I hold left unknown. Am I wasting away? What will be left of me when someone finally comes along to turn my pages and delve into the story known as me?
I fear that I'll be left forgotten until the shelf which holds me rots and falls away beneath me. I sit in a corner of darkness, hidden away by the shadows surrounding me.
YOU ARE READING
The Feelings Which Flow Through Me
RandomThe feelings that I have felt, the feelings which I buried have come bursting forth. Breaking to the surface. This is for me. This is my quick release valve.
