depression, oppression
my constant companions
an open book my cover has been slammed shut
over and over and over

my binding is worn
my pages unread
once a piece of classical literature
now I gather dust in the backroom

what lies between my pages
fantasy and truth
woven into the fabric
my very existence

I dream of fire
hot and bright and out of control
whether it is me burning
or the light deep inside me that refuses to go out

how I yearn to be opened
each page turned slowly and appreciated
loved by sensual hands
understood by a beautiful mind

to get back my yesteryears
I am beyond inviting
unwilling to make amends
waiting for that reader

the one with magic at his fingertips
that can wipe away my feelings of nothingness
I would weep for myself if I could
tears will never fall from my eyes

read between my lines
save me from myself
for my written word
underlies the desires of my heart

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