Here we are, just sitting here.
Thousands and thousands and thousands of us.
To me, they are all the same.
All leather bound and hard covers.
And then there’s me.
I am the dog-eared paperback.
Worn and torn and folded.
To some, I am perhaps weak.
To others, I am not – just loved greatly.
My story is different from yours,
And from hers and from his.
The words across my pages are unique.
As are everyone else’s.
Shh, here someone comes.
A boy, a girl, a patron.
With me, they don’t just pick a story.
They pick a life.
Writing is the time where I can be myself and I don’t have any prison bars to restrict me and I am free, I am free, I am free.